The Warrior King (Inferno Rising #3) - Abigail Owen Page 0,26
her arms as though the glowing sign might appear at her will.
Volos spared a glance at Rhiamon, appeared to contain a shudder, then moved his gaze to Pytheios. “A phoenix cannot be made.”
Tisiphone slid a questioning gaze to Pytheios, who waved for her to go ahead with her sharing. “We won’t need the real phoenixes after Pytheios has drained them of their powers.”
As they had discussed, Tisiphone did not mention his plan to mate her, making her a permanent fixture as “the phoenix” at his side as far as the rest of the dragon shifter world was concerned. With no other phoenix to contradict his claim, because he’d kill them, and holding all that power himself, no one would be the wiser.
The plan was perfect.
But Rhiamon couldn’t know that piece on the board, or she might not act out her part for him if she believed he’d mate another. Not after the promises he’d made. Promises he’d released himself from the instant she’d died.
“What do you get for this deception?” Volos asked, voice thready.
“The High King has promised his witch can make me fertile when we succeed in shutting down this rebellion. When she does, I shall give my mate the offspring he deserves.”
In the corner of the room where she’d slowly moved, Rhiamon’s shoulders twitched. He’d have to talk to Tisiphone about calling her “his witch.” They needed Rhiamon to play nice for now.
Volos dropped his gaze. “That’s…a generous offer.” He was quiet a long beat, then pulled back his shoulders. “I should have trusted that you had a master plan, my king.”
Yes. But that wouldn’t be a problem anymore.
He bowed his head in acceptance of the apology, the movement slow mostly because of the effort to lift it again.
“I wish you had come to me sooner,” Volos said next. Pandering evident in the sort of flailing urgency in his voice. “I would have offered my niece to you without hesitation.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Volos approached Pytheios and bowed. “I will return to my mountain and take this secret to my grave. I shall be proud to know my kin is part of your plan.”
“I don’t think so.”
Volos paused midbow and lifted his gaze. “Pardon?”
Pytheios shifted his gaze to Rhiamon, who had already been chanting quietly in her corner. Even reborn, she knew his wishes without a word. Now she lifted her gaze—silver irises floating eerily in a sea of black death.
Satisfaction tore through his veins.
Before her demise, it took almost an hour for her to work up to the moment she could pull a soul from a body, and another hour of concentrated, exhaustive effort to place that soul into Pytheios. That effort had been why they’d needed their special, private room for the act. That and the screaming.
But she was already there, ready to pull a soul from a body. Within minutes. It appeared death had only made her stronger.
As soon as she fixed her gaze on Volos, the white king froze as still as the dead in their tombs. Men he would soon join. The only movement in his body came from the pupils of his eyes, which dilated, consuming the white irises. Slowly, Rhiamon crossed the room, lips moving as soundless words tumbled out, her gaze focused entirely on her prey. When she reached his side, she laid a hand on his shoulder. With tiny jerks, like watching a stop-motion film, Volos straightened from his bow and faced her.
Rhiamon put her lips to his, and the white king’s mouth opened wide in a silent scream. A shadow of his face appeared to lift away from his body, a spectral form drawing into her mouth, as she pulled his ghost, his soul, from his corporeal form into her own. The process took less than a minute. Then Volos’s eyes clouded over, his skin turning a deathly gray, before he collapsed to the floor without so much as a twitch of life left within him.
Rhiamon turned to Pytheios, then paused, glancing over his shoulder at Tisiphone, her eyes narrowing.
“Rhiamon,” Pytheios rumbled, wanting her focus on him.
She continued to home in on the false phoenix with venom in her gaze.
“My king,” Tisiphone whimpered behind him. He ignored her.
“Rhiamon,” Pytheios growled now, letting cold demand freeze the word.
He needed this, needed the power, the added time. A soul as old as Volos’s wouldn’t help for long, but a dragon shifter, no matter the age, especially one as powerful as a king, would tide him over. Hopefully long enough.