They’ll get theirs, too.
“He’s in a hurry,” Penelope told her followers, “so there’s no reason to make introductions or politely await your turn.” She clapped, all haughty disdain. “Well? Didn’t you hear me? Go, go, go. Feast!”
There was no time to brace. In seconds, the beings surrounded him, adhering their mouths to some part of his body. Not physically, but spiritually, and that was so much worse. They sucked on him from the inside. The pulling sensation never ended. Cold infiltrated his limbs and torso.
Phantoms did this, too. Which made sense, considering Erebus based the creation of his phantoms off wraiths.
Wraiths had come into being because of a curse. Knowing this, the Dark One used some kind of evil force to similarly curse those he killed, binding their life to his for the rest of eternity, forcing them to obey his every command.
Suction sounds filled Roux’s ears, and pulling sensations worsened. The cold spread, going deeper. He cringed, the urge to fight nearly irresistible. From Blythe’s exquisite kiss to this. From sizzling heat to frigid chill.
Weakness soon invaded. More than he’d expected.
The defenses in his mental prison crumbled. Prisoners rushed free.
“Oh, Astra. I forgot to mention.” All calculation and delight, Penelope floated in front of him. “In your haste to save the harphantom, you neglected to set a limit to how much of you my people can drink during each setting. Therefore, I took the liberty of deciding for you. In case you’re wondering, it’s however much they want. Try not to die.”
He attempted to respond, but he discovered he had no voice. Screams erupted. Thousands upon thousands of screams.
Do not black out. Do not...
19
THE LIGHT
Blythe paced before the crackling hearth, her wings flapping through the slits in her T-shirt, and her mind a mess. The storm had finally let up, but an icy wind continued to bluster inside the bedroom. Candles flickered all around, helping to warm the chamber without the presence of Roux the furnace.
If she’d been home, she might’ve taken Isla shopping or settled in an engaging book about torture techniques. But she wasn’t home and she wasn’t in the mood to read anything but the room—with the Astra in it. Where had he gone? Who was he with? The Phoenix, as Blythe suspected? What was he doing? Thinking? Feeling?
As she strode back and forth, stomping her feet, she scraped her claws over the hearth’s stone frame. A romantic association between the Astra and the Phoenix shouldn’t bother her. Roux’s comings and goings didn’t matter. Dead enemy walking, remember? But it bothered her. It mattered. She’d let him kiss her. They’d almost had sex.
To be perfectly candid, they absolutely, positivelywould’vehad sex if she hadn’t come to her senses. He’d nearly lowered his zipper, and oh, how she’d hungered for him to do it. No male had ever tempted her more. She’d been consumed by his scent, his heat, his strength. Even his expressions. The usually stoic warrior had displayed everything from shocked wonder to fierce possession. His touch had been eager and firm. Confident despite his lack of experience. Which was another turn-on, dang it!
He reacted to Blythe alone. Yearned for her alone. Or he used to. And now? Had she opened the floodgates of passion for others?
On her next pass, she scraped the stoneharder, surprised when the thing didn’t crumble into dust. Part of her resented the return of her good sense. And she shouldn’t! Wrong turns put you in the wrong location at the wrong time, doing your best to put out fires you were never supposed to ignite.
Lifetime consequences for a momentary pleasure? Not a fair bargain on any level. And yet, still she desired the intense blond giant. And this time, she couldn’t blame the siren’s song.
What’s the matter with me?To a certain degree, Blythe had once acted this way with Laban, too, before she’d realized—or rather, accepted—that he was her consort. But Roux wasn’t her consort. He couldn’t be. To her knowledge, no harpy had ever gotten a new fated male. And, if such a thing were possible, which it wasn’t, there was no way the second would be the one who’d murdered the original.
Unless Laban belonged to the harpy and Roux belonged to the phantom?
No. No! All other harpies possessed a dual nature, too, reflecting whatever their father happened to be. Again, they only ever received a single consort. Even if said consort had only appeared in a solo hallucination and had done the unthinkable, telling them to move on and live their best life.
What kind of spouse did that?
Blythe paced faster. Why couldn’t she get herself together? If not for herself, for her child.
Sweet Isla. A whimper slipped free. Blythe stopped, just stopped, as a fresh tide of homesickness rose. What was the little girl doing right this moment? Did she need help with homework? Was she sleeping at night?
Regret joined the toxic assortment of emotions fermenting inside Blythe. Forget teaching the beloved child how to properly handle a foe. Why hadn’t she shown her daughter how to properly love her family?
How could a mother leave her own child without even saying goodbye?
With a shriek, she pounded her fist into the wall. Stone finally cracked, and dust coated the air. Tears seared her eyes. Tears? Ugh! What kind of a harpy cried?
First a bad wife and mother, now a bad harpy. Her chin trembled. Was overseeing a vendetta always this complicated? So far, Blythe had done little to aid her own cause. She gotten herself stuck in an unfamiliar realm, a participant in a death tournament. Oh, yes, and she was kind of owned by a wraith.