“Do you expect me to kill Aristo without trying to reach him? I also thought you were evil, but decided not to harm you.”
“He’s not going to turn out like me. You’re setting yourself up for disappointment. Which is your business. I just want to return to my home.” She started forward again. The brush began to thin. In the distance, she could see a field.
He walked backward to keep his gaze locked on hers. “I can’t allow that. We will not be parted. After this long without you, how could I release you now?”
She waved a hand shining with blue energy in front of his face. “You won’t have any choice.”
He glowered at her hand. “Melanthe, just stop and discuss this with me.”
“The same problems as before apply. When you can see past my number, then maybe we’ll talk.”
“So if I could see past it, you’d come with me to the Skye? Then use your power to make me forget the men you’ve been with,” he said, as if he’d just lit on the idea and found it excellent. “If that’s what it takes, then I’ll subject myself to your sorcery once more.”
She clenched her blue fists, hating him for hurting her yet again, hating that he didn’t even understand how he was hurting her. “Should I make you think I’m totally a virgin, or maybe that I only had a couple of f**k buddies? How about one conquest per century?” Voice rising with each word, she yelled, “I hate the way you make me feel!”
“I don’t want to! But I don’t know how to handle this. I can’t just act like I haven’t felt wrath. Like I haven’t been brought to my knees with jealousy. . . .” He trailed off, frowning at a pair of marble markers that bordered the path. Only two lines had been carved on them.
Thronos had already gone across their border.
“What do they say?” she asked, backing away.
He read them, gazing up with bafflement. And then things really got weird.
THIRTY-ONE
The markers read:
Pain confesses all.
And Time cares naught.
What did that mean? Enough with this bloody place! What would this zone have in store? The mention of pain didn’t worry him; he knew pain, could handle any physical agony. But what about Melanthe?
The sun was beginning to rise, purple clouds in the background like a halo over her black hair. He’d just taken a step in her direction when he spied movement.
He disbelieved his sight—not far behind her was a tank-sized beast with bloodred eyes, dripping fangs, and bony spikes protruding from its spine.
A hellhound.
“Freeze, Melanthe.”
She did. Eyes wide, she whispered, “Something’s behind me, isn’t it?”
He gave a shallow nod.
The beast’s soot-colored pelt was said to be dense enough to repel swords. And talons.
But if Thronos could reach her and get them into the air . . .
The hound lifted its snout. Catching their scent, it let out a chilling howl. When it charged them, Thronos lunged for her.
He never reached Melanthe. Another beast collided with him from the side, a locomotive of force that nearly knocked him out of his boots.
A second hound.
Thronos crashed to the ground. When his vision cleared, he found one mammoth paw pinning him by the waist. He cast his wing up, talon slashing.
The strike didn’t even disturb the beast’s dense fur.