“Perhaps.”
When he sensed an air current and abruptly dipped to catch it, she cried, “Take me to the ground, or I’ll vomit!”
Thronos knew she would stop at nothing to get free. But to act as if she would be sick? She used to love it when he took her into the air, would laugh with delight. He’d flown with her often, back when he’d been addicted to the sound of her laughter.
“I can’t take this height, Thronos! I swear to gold.”
They were only a few hundred feet in the air. Yet her vow to gold gave him pause. She would consider it as sacred as a vow made to the Lore.
“Oh, gods.” A second later, she heaved, throwing up a concoction of gruel, water, and dirt on his shirt.
A growl sounded from his chest; hers heaved once more.
If his arms hadn’t been full, Thronos would have pinched his brow in disbelief. Not only did his fated, eternal mate have no wings, she now suffered from a fear of heights.
Yet another way the wicked sorceress was all wrong for him. In addition to the fact that she despised him as much as he despised her, Melanthe was a light-skirted liar and thief who’d proved malicious to the bone.
But she hadn’t always been that way. He remembered her as a sensitive girl—though already mischievous.
He spotted a grassy plateau, high above the ocean. No creatures in sight. He descended, landing without particular care.
When he released Melanthe, her right leg stepped left, then her left leg stepped right. He predicted her fall and readily allowed it. When she landed on her knees, she heaved again.
Exhaling with impatience, he used the time to wipe away her sick from his shirt and check himself for ghoul wounds.
No marks.
From her spot on the ground, Melanthe said, “I thought Vrekeners were supposed to keep the Lore hush-hush from humans. If so, bang-up job you’re doing!”
Since memory, Vrekeners had been tasked with stamping out evil in the Lore—and with hiding its existence, punishing anyone who threatened the immortals’ secret.
Yet all the while, this human enclave had kept its acquisitive gaze on Loreans.
Getting captured by them had been as easy as Thronos had expected.
Melanthe eyed him. “If all the good immortals still have their collars, why don’t you?”
“The better question: How could you possibly have retained yours?”
FOUR
Lanthe swiped the back of her forearm over her mouth. “I wondered that myself.”
Earlier, Lanthe, Carrow, Ruby, and two other Sorceri had been whiling away time in their cell, awaiting their turn at vivisection, when suddenly they’d felt a presence; a sorceress of colossal power had descended on this island, La Dorada the Queen of Evil.
That female had liberated all the evil beings, popping their collars off—members of the Pravus like Lanthe’s cellmate, Portia the Queen of Stone.
Portia had used her goddesslike control over rock of any kind to raise mountains up through the center of the prison. The force had crushed the thick metal cell walls like tin cans.
Her accomplice, Emberine the Queen of Flames, had lit the place up like an inferno. Immortals had flooded out, overpowering the Order’s various defenses.
Then . . . pande-fucking-monium.
Humans—and collared Loreans—had been gutted, drained of blood, infected by ghouls or Wendigos, raped to death by succubae, or eaten by any number of creatures.
The Queen of Evil, a freaking fellow Sorceri, had left Lanthe helpless in the midst of that chaos. Real solidarity there, Dorada. And yet she’d freed Thronos, a Vrekener? He was a “knight of reckoning,” the equivalent of a Lore sheriff.
Lanthe raised her face to the rain, collecting a mouthful to rinse. Then she turned to him. “Maybe you lost your collar because you’ve become evil over all these centuries.”