When she reached the door that was slightly ajar, she pushed it wider and froze in complete shock.
Barely dressed, her mother was on the floor sick, while her father held her. His short black hair was tousled, and his handsome face contorted by worry. Someone, no doubt her father, had braided her mother’s long, blond hair to keep it out of her way while she was ill.
Both of them were pale and shaking.
Terrified, Medea rushed closer to them. “What’s going on?”
Stryker swallowed hard before he answered. “I don’t know. She woke up gagging. And has been sick for over an hour now.” He adjusted the cool cloth on her mother’s head.
Since Daimons and their brand of demon couldn’t get sick, in theory, or pregnant, this couldn’t be good. Medea knelt down beside her mother. “Matera?”
With a greenish cast to her skin, her mother placed a tender hand to Medea’s cheek and tried to smile. “I’ll be fine, little one. I just need a minute.”
But she could tell by the fear in her father’s eyes that this was worse than her brave mother was letting on.
“Did you need something?” her father asked.
She let out a frustrated sigh. “I hate to burden you with anything else…”
He arched a brow.
“Kessar’s returned to the playing field. My spy at Sanctuary just sent word that he has the Emerald Tablet in hand, and has awakened the Scythian Riders to come for you.”
Her mother made a sound of supreme pain. “I hate those bitches. I should have ripped out Nala’s throat when I had the chance.”
Only her mother could muster that much hatred and venom in that condition. But then, that was what Medea loved best about Zephyra. She was a fighter to the bitter end.
Her father laughed at the threat. “He’s coming for me?”
Medea nodded. “And he wants Max.”
“The dragon?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” her father asked with a frown.
Before she could speak, there was another knock on their door.
Medea rose. “I’ll see who it is.” She teleported to the door, intending to brush off whoever was there. Yet as soon as she opened it and saw her second-in-command and best friend, Davyn, she knew something was wrong.
He had the same greenish cast to his skin and her handsome, lovely friend looked as ill as her mother. And like her parents, his blond hair was tousled all over his head – something Davyn never allowed to happen.
“What’s wrong?”
He braced his hand against the frame as he struggled to breathe. “There’s some kind of illness spreading through our ranks.” As he started to elaborate, he broke off into a fit of coughing. “It’s as if we have a plague.”
An even worse feeling went through her at those words. Whenever someone mentioned the words “plague” and “Daimon,” only one name came to mind…
Apollo.
And that rat bastard just happened to be in residence.
Terrified she was right, but really, really hoping she wasn’t, she moved toward Davyn. “C’mon, baby, let me get you to bed.”
He pulled back from her. “Not that I wouldn’t appreciate the help, but I don’t want you to catch whatever hell this is. Besides, Stryker would gut me if I gave it to you. And you would, too.”
She snorted at his sick sense of humor. “Only you could be that funny and that ill simultaneously. Go on with you, before I beat you anyway. Just for good measure.”