Her head is tipped forward for the moment, and her loose hair obscures my view of her face. She’s in a dress unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, like she’s wrapped in a fluffy, white cloud from the neck down. It’s cinched at the waist with a ropelike sash, and to be honest, I’d want to live in a garment like that if I had one. Maybe it’s Nymph gear, or something Lycheron picked up somewhere else. Magical creatures aren’t bound to their world like humans are. Olympus is their universal hub, just like for the Gods.
It’s well past dusk wherever she is on the Fisan border, and another day in Thalyria is crawling toward night. Unlike Griffin, who only sits in the dark, Ianthe moves from candle to candle, illuminating her tent. Her surroundings look comfortable, truly cozy and warm. I see a table and chairs, a bathing corner with a big brass tub it must have taken a few Ipotane to carry in there, a pile of books, and a chest for clothes.
Lycheron gains a few points in my book—and I am keeping score—because he obviously supplied Ianthe with whatever she needed after she left us with nothing but the clothes on her back, not even her protective pearls.
I touch them at my waist. Even here, I wear them to protect Little Bean from outside influences. No compulsion can get through them, no mind control or planted thoughts. Mother can’t reach my baby. With any luck, the Gods can’t, either.
In Ianthe’s tent, the remnants of a one-person meal wait on a tray, ready to be taken out. Ianthe obviously ate alone, and I wonder where Lycheron is. He didn’t look like he was planning on letting her out of his sight when he galloped off with her…what? Two months ago now?
Of that time, I’ve been in Tartarus far too long. The tangle of nerves in my abdomen draws ever tighter, and it isn’t Little Bean doing something odd. She only kicked that once, and if I couldn’t feel the steady hum of her life force inside me, I’d be terrified she was gone. She’s just not growing here, not changing at all while I try to figure out how to get us both home.
Far from me and yet only a few feet away, Ianthe moves a painted screen of folding panels off to one side and then lights the candles near the previously concealed bed. It’s not so much a bed as a large pallet of cushions and furs, the luxurious pile thick enough to be nicely raised off the rug-covered ground. It looks like something a weary body could sink into and not want to get out of for days. The bulky, warm weight of the golden fleece crowns off the bedding, sprawled haphazardly across the top.
The tawny, one-of-a-kind treasure reminds me so much of Kato that something painful roars across my chest. My heart screams, and it’s all I can do not to scream along with it.
Blinking hard, I push past the tear in my soul and focus again on Ianthe instead, watching her as she continues to chase the shadows from her snug little corner of the world. When she finishes her tasks around the tent, she sets the candle she was using to light the others down on the table and then looks up, seemingly right at me.
I take in every detail of her face. The straight nose, the green eyes, the small but stubborn chin. I miss her. I lost her too soon and then found her too late. I fear our time will never come.
Ianthe isn’t really looking at me, though. She has no idea I’m watching her. She must hear something, because she glances toward the tent’s door just before Lycheron pushes his large, muscular frame through the heavy flap, his imposing presence instantly filling more than his fair share of space.
Stillness grips them both the moment their gazes lock. Neither of them seems to remember to breathe. A current passes between them that I don’t have to see or feel to know is there. The raw strength of it reaches me even here. I swear a natural disaster could crack the world wide open under their feet right now, and they wouldn’t even notice falling in. Nothing but the two of them exists.
I snap my jaw shut. It’s epically apparent they’ve formed a deep attachment—far beyond mere interest or lust. I get the strangest impression of the two of them both settling and vibrating, like being in the same room together is as much a comfort as a thrill.
I see it in them, because it’s so much like Griffin and me. They haven’t touched. They haven’t spoken. But oh Gods, I think they’re in love.
Ianthe finally breathes. As if to steady herself, she curls her fingers around the edge of the table, gripping it hard. “Did you find out anything?” The slight hitch in her voice hints at both eagerness and fear.
My heart speeds up, making me realize how starved I am for living noises, for words besides my own. Tartarus is a lonely place, each of us trapped and isolated in our own solitary punishment or labor. Besides grunting his thanks for food he hardly touches, Griffin doesn’t speak. When he leaves the bedroom, he must talk—presumably, he still has two realms to run—but he always comes back, silent and brooding, and I can’t seem to follow him anywhere else. The last conversation I had was with Perses. The Titan hasn’t reappeared, although he’s no longer a crumpled heap down on the valley floor. And Prometheus is the very antithesis of talkative. Ianthe’s is the first much-needed and familiar voice I’ve heard.
After a slight hesitation, Lycheron answers her with a small shake of his head. “No, little dove. Nothing.”
Shock stamps a startled look across Ianthe’s face. Her eyes widen, and her lips part, forming a small, crestfallen oval. She makes no effort to hide her emotions. They’re right there, written all over her features.
“But Talia can’t just have disappeared. Someone must know something,” she says.
Her disappointment has an obvious impact on Lycheron, as plain to see as Ianthe’s own unguarded distress. His jaw hardens, and a visible twitch vibrates along his long equine back. He moves farther into the tent, his glossy black coat gleaming in the flickering candlelight. Fluid muscle ripples beneath his skin. The Ipotane Alpha exudes virility and strength like the sun radiates heat and light, all that masculine potency an inherent part of his very nature.
“If they do, they’re not telling me,” he answers, a sour note creeping in to embitter the deep timbre of his voice. He ties the tent flap closed behind him, and then to my utter astonishment, he turns into a man. Not a horse-man, just a man. Well, not just a man. A naked, glorious, huge-in-every-possible-way man. It only takes a second, a blink of an eye, to make the seamless transition from brawny magical creature to jaw-dropping, powerful male.
My chin hits my chest. Ianthe doesn’t seem surprised, but a flood of color still blazes across her cheeks. She lowers her gaze. I don’t. My eyes are huge. I can’t stop staring.
So that’s how they do it. I’d wondered how those Nymphs could possibly manage, how anything could…fit.
I cock my head. Fitting might still take some work.