It's worth it.
Perhaps, but what concerned him most was how little he cared whether or not they lived anymore. Duty. Honor. Existing. Those were the things he knew.
He was becoming unsalvageable. How much longer until he refused to even render a choice? It would be easy, really. Pop in, strike them down, and come home.
Why go through the motions of trying to save anyone when the Dark-Hunters were the ones who damned themselves to begin with?
No, he wasn't Acheron after all. His patience had run out long ago. He no longer cared what happened to any of them.
But as he watched Danger slay the last of her Daimons, he did feel something. It was quick and fluttering, like a dull spasm.
For the first time in centuries, he wanted to change what was to come-he just didn't know why. Why should he care?
Holding his hand up, he banished the images from his walls.
Even so, he continued to see the future clearly in his mind. If Danger continued on her course, she, like her friends, would die during the Krisi-the judgment Alexion would soon deliver. Her loyalty to them would be her death.
But she wasn't the only one who could perish by Alexion's hand. Alexion closed his eyes and summoned another Dark-Hunter into his mind.
Kyros.
He was setting the course for the downfall of not only himself but for all the others too.
This time, there was no mistaking the pain Alexion felt. It was so unexpected that it actually made him flinch. It was the last remnant of his humanity and he was relieved that he still held even a tiny ounce of it.
No, he couldn't just stand by and see the man die. Not if he could help it.
"Nothing is ever truly set by fate. In one blink, everything changes. Even though it should be a clear, sunny day, the softest whisper into the wind can became a hurricane that destroys everything it touches."
How many times had Acheron told him that?
Everything was coming to a head again and Alexion wanted to change what was meant to be.
It was odd to have such vivid feelings now after all these centuries of experiencing absolutely nothing.
There's always hope.
Yeah, right. He'd long forgotten the sensation of hope. Life went on. People went on. Death went on. Tragedy. Success. It all cycled through there and here. Nothing ever changed.
And yet he felt different for once. Marco had gone Rogue and aided the Daimons. There was nothing to be done for him. And even worse, there were others who were quickly following his lead. Others who were allowing him and Kyros to turn their minds away from the truth. The Dark-Hunters in Northern Mississippi were coming together to rebel against Acheron and Artemis.
It was something that had to be stopped.
His resolve set, he made his way out of his room in the southernmost point of Acheron's palace and headed down the gilded back hallway that ran from his elaborate chambers to the centrally located throne room. The black-veined marble floor was somewhat cold against his bare feet. Had he still been human, that cold would be absolutely biting. As it was, he could only acknowledge the temperature, he couldn't really feel it. And yet that coldness seemed to seep all the way through him.
Reaching the twelve-foot door that was made of gold, he pushed it open to find Acheron on his throne while Acheron's demon, Simi, was lying on her stomach in the far corner of the room, watching QVC.
The demon, who appeared to be a human woman around the age of twenty, was dressed in red vinyl. Her ever-changing horns matched her clothes perfectly and her long black hair was braided down her back. She had a giant, half-empty bowl of popcorn cradled in her arms while her tail whipped around her head as if swishing in time to the countdown clock.
"Akri?" the she-demon demanded. "Where's my plastic?"
As he always did while at home in Katoteros, Acheron wore his black formesta-a long robelike garment that was left open in front, baring his chest and black leather pants. It was made of heavy silk that was embroidered on the back with a gold sun pierced by three silver lightning bolts-a mark that had been branded onto Alexion's shoulder.
Acheron's long black hair was left unbound, hanging about his shoulders. He sat on the gilded throne strumming a solid black electric guitar that played perfectly without the benefit of an amplifier. The wall to his left was a series of television monitors all of which showed the cartoon Johnny Bravo.
"I don't know, Sim," Acheron said distractedly. "Ask Alexion."
Before Alexion could reach Acheron's throne, the demon appeared before him, hovering in midair while her large red and black wings flapped to support her weight. Her wings, like her horns and eyes, were ever-changing in their color to fit her mood and momentary taste. Her hair color changed too, but it was linked to Acheron, therefore her hair color was always identical to his.