Warrior Queen - Karpov Kinrade Page 0,28

brings the bodies to the temples.”

“You’d think there would be a better system. It’s a bit gruesome,” I mutter.

“Perhaps, but it occurs so rarely and is so quick,” she replies. “I scarcely recall my life and the death of it was so brief, not even a drop’s worth of time in the vastness of the ocean.”

Well, I remember mine well enough. Curious, I glance over to Ladron. He’s sitting there, food untouched, his long elegant fingers drumming on the couch cushions. “And you, Ladron? Have you ever died and returned before?”

He draws a deep breath, as if I startled him from thought. “Death? No, I’ve never departed upon that journey, but I suppose there’s always a first time.”

I turn to Torak and Mirk. They’re demigods. There’s no coming back for them. If they die, that’s it. They’re gone. Forever.

The thought turns the taste of the food in my mouth to dust.

The rest of the meal passes quickly. I discuss my plans to ambush Clay further with Persephone, Torak, Mirk, and Ladron, but spend much of the time lost in the past, thinking of my life as Lily, and of my siblings, the Lemon sisters, as well as Clay, or as he is better known here, Epimetheus. The interesting thing is the bond I feel for all of them. It’s easy to understand my connection with Sarah and Melanie, but Clay? After all these centuries, the countless troubles Prometheus had with him, and my current problems now… You’d think I’d only feel anger and disgust. But I don’t. Something deep inside me wants to save him. Somehow.

The feast slowly winds to an end, and after bidding my goodnights, I check on my army. The monsters, for the most part, are asleep, and after Homer assures me all is well for the third time, I retire to my room.

The bed has been made ready, the covers turned down and curtains of white, gauzy silk fall from the roof to wrap the feather mattress in a flowing, inviting cocoon.

But I’m in no mood to sleep.

I’m restless, and after a few minutes, I head out to the garden. The cries of the night birds echo in the chill of the air and the darkness around me feels velvety soft, peaceful. The moon hangs bright in the sky, but there’s not a single star in the inky blackness overhead.

I wander for a time, my mind a blissful blank.

Gradually, I become aware of lizards darting along the tree branches, keeping pace with me like little watchful guardians as I leave the garden and step into another one, a level below.

Through the arched entrance, I see a figure ahead. A bare, muscled torso gleams silver in the moonlight, and long, dark hair sweeps over broad shoulders.

It’s Mirk.

He’s standing before a round, white stone. Somber. Sad, even. He lifts his hand and pours the contents of a golden cup over the sphere.

A breath of wind brings with it a floral fragrance, a mix of lilacs and gardenias.

Not wanting to intrude upon his solitude, I prepare to withdraw, but that slight movement announces my presence.

Mirk turns his head to one side. “Lily?”

“Can you see in the dark?” Or behind your head? He hasn’t even fully turned my way.

“Of course,” he snorts. “I am born of Hades. Darkness is woven into my soul.”

“You’re quite the poet,” I say, stepping into the moonlight to join him.

“Oh? Perhaps, among other things.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, eyeing the empty golden goblet in his hand.

He doesn’t answer at first. After a beat, he says, “This is my mother’s memory stone, where the Fae come to remember those who have departed.”

I step closer and lay a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry to intrude.”

“It’s not what you think,” he surprises me by saying. “Persephone left this stone here, to teach me my culture. She wanted to give me roots.”

“Persephone?”

“When my mother died, the Fae of my tribe discovered Hades’ blood running through my veins. They brought me here and withdrew. They’ve never revealed themselves since.”

“Wow. That’s harsh. It must be hard.” And it explains so much about him, the melancholy that I now see runs through his soul. He’s a gazelle without his herd, the kind of animal who withers and wastes away when they’re cut off, left alone. Although, he hasn’t physically withered, his soul is still hurt.

Mirk lifts his face up to the moonlight. “I don’t blame them. I understand. The gods are foreign to them. They’re a people who live