The Warrior King (Inferno Rising #3) - Abigail Owen Page 0,24

shifters—should be dependent upon another creature. Their kind should not rely on outside influences to determine their leaders or provide supernatural bullshit luck. Dragons were glorious and perfect without intervention.

But his people couldn’t see past their own mortality. He’d been blind himself once, only seeing the need to mate a phoenix to secure his claim to the throne of the Red Clan and the title of High King. Belief in his destiny had centered his world.

It had taken Serefina choosing another, choosing Zilant Amon as a mate, for Pytheios to see the true danger of submitting to the supposed power of the firebird lore.

Now he had four to contend with, dammit. Her daughters.

No matter. If he could take their powers—all four of the sisters—and kill them afterward, then he would be everything his people needed. High King forever, able to lead all dragon shifters into a new and glorious era.

One that would last forever.

First, he had to capture each of those bitches. All four of them, though he only knew the whereabouts of three. That had been his earlier mistake, going after one at a time. The mated ones posed a greater complication. Little in this world was more dangerous than a male dragon protecting his mate. The best plan would be to take all four at once and drain them quickly.

Hopefully the trap he’d laid, and the bait he’d set out, would lure them to him. Could Rhiamon keep him alive that long?

He’d brought her back from beyond the grave, but altered—more powerful, angrier, and uncontrolled. Bitter that he’d killed their useless son, sacrificing Merikh to bring her back, using a dark magic that required a life for a life.

Pytheios didn’t dare bring his witch to this room. She wasn’t stable. Any child could see that just looking at her. Seeing the scene of her death might tip her mind into the void.

With careful movements, every action an effort in the state of decay he’d reached, Pytheios locked the door and made his way to the supersonic elevator he’d had installed in the last century, then down to the lower levels. Jakkobah would have known to escort Volos—and Volos alone—to his private study. Pytheios’s own private chambers were off-limits.

Avoiding the halls most traveled, Pytheios didn’t bother to knock or have either of the guards announce him. Though he nodded at one to open the door for him.

Inside only Jakkobah and Volos waited.

For a man who dressed in custom-made suits, styled simple and straight with a standing collar but with intricately detailed embroidery and luxurious materials, Jakkobah had chosen to decorate his spaces in a more minimalist fashion with clean lines and sparse furniture.

Volos rose from a straight-backed wooden chair.

Tall and hefty-shouldered in human form, more akin to gold dragon shifters despite being white, Volos had broad features and wide-set eyes. Swarthy skin appeared even darker against his shock of white hair, worn short and slicked back, and his white-blue eyes practically glowed. The King of the White Clan had remained unmated all these years. Pytheios had seen to that. Both Volos and Gorgon—a way to keep kings in line. Age was starting to show its slow march across Volos’s face.

The time had come for a younger king for the White Clan. Placing Brock Hagan there, a gold dragon, would cause ripples, but he had little concern that the White Clan would obey. Brock was of royal blood—he should have been the gold king if it hadn’t been for Brand Astarot and his damn phoenix. The man hid a cruel streak that Pytheios had every intention of leveraging to his own purposes. Once they defeated the rebel kings, maybe he’d give him both the Gold and White Clans as a reward.

He’d sent Brock on a mission. If he came back from that unharmed, then they’d take the first step with the White Clan.

Volos bowed, breaking into Pytheios’s thoughts. “High King.”

Keeping his hands steepled before him, Pytheios did not offer to shake. Physical contact hurt too much in his current state. “My old friend. What brings you here?”

He knew. He wanted to hear Volos say it.

“Tisiphone.”

Allowing a small smile to stretch his lips uncomfortably, Pytheios nodded. “Of course. A miraculous find, isn’t she?”

“Is she?” Volos asked, pale eyes narrowed with a blatant display of suspicion. “A find, I mean?”

Pytheios gazed back through his one still-good eye, the other giving him only a milky image behind cataracts. “You question me?”

To give him credit for still possessing some brains, Volos paled slightly, but