Marked

CHAPTER SEVEN

Isadora smoothed the covers over her legs and plastered on a smile as fake as the cubic zirconium some human women went gaga over as she looked up at her father’s personal physician.

The crease between Callia’s perfect eyebrows wasn’t a sign of optimism.

Not that Isadora needed confirmation from the race’s greatest healer. She was growing weaker by the day. She knew it in her head, felt it in her bones. She just didn’t understand why.

Callia replaced the tools in her bag with quiet care. “No visible injuries. Your vitals are strong. Whatever agents you encountered in the human world shouldn’t be affecting you like this. Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

Now, there’s a question. How in the name of Hades to answer that one?

Isadora twisted her hands in her lap to give her time to think of an answer, pushed her long hair over her shoulder and wished for scissors so she could cut the heavy mass. Tradition forbade it though. Females of the royal family were to remain untouched until matrimony. In every sense of the word.

And wasn’t that just a kick in the pants? Not to mention, one of the many things she planned to change about the monarchy as soon as she was queen.

If, that is, she lived long enough to assume her crown.

“Of course not,” she said under Callia’s ruthless stare. “I’ve told you everything.”

Callia’s expression remained stoic. Her pale violet eyes narrowed. It was obvious she knew Isadora was lying, but the healer wasn’t willing to challenge her.

At least not yet.

One check in the plus column.

Only problem was, it didn’t do much to boost Isadora’s mood. It was foolish to feel inferior, considering she was destined to command more power than any other Argolean, but at that moment, in front of this gynaíka, Isadora felt like a speck on the floor beneath a dirty boot. As a healer, Callia had powers most Argoleans only dreamed of, and Isadora’s father loved to rave about the brains beneath Callia’s startling beauty. To the extent that Isadora was often of the opinion he’d rather have Callia for a daughter than the one fate had saddled him with.

Her father’s greatest disappointment was that in the almost seven hundred years of his life, his only heir had been female. Female and weak.

Callia finally broke the stare-down and finished gathering her things. Her long auburn hair spilled down her back as she moved. She wore slim, tailored slacks and a fitted blue jacket that looked stylish and bold. As most Argoleans were at least half human, and fascinated with human culture as a whole, their dress and mannerisms often mimicked those from the human world. The exception was the royal family, and Isadora in particular. Sheltered. Cloistered. Forbidden from crossing the portal or even looking through to the other side. All in the name of tradition and of upholding that which had been established over three thousand years ago.

Callia represented everything Isadora wanted to be. She was the consummate professional with enough sex appeal charging the air around her to light an entire village. And confident without fault. Another reason—among many—Isadora wasn’t fond of her.

“I’m going to return to the clinic and research your symptoms in more depth.” Callia lifted the bag from the side of Isadora’s bed. “Then I’m going to speak with your father.”

“You don’t need to burden him with my situation,” Isadora said quickly.

“He’s still king. And I greatly suspect the health of his heir is of monumental concern to him.”

Right. His heir. Not his daughter. Not because he cared or anything.

Isadora didn’t bother to answer. What could she say anyway?

Callia swept out of the bedroom suite as gracefully as she’d entered. From beyond the double oak doors, a trio of mumbled voices drifted into the room. Callia’s, Isadora’s handmaiden Saphira’s, and the unmistakable sounds of a male voice.

Isadora tensed.

For two days she’d been wondering what had happened to Theron. She remembered his coming for her in the human strip club and carrying her outside. But everything after that was a blur. She’d awoken in the castle. In this same four-poster monstrosity that could sleep six comfortably and threatened to swallow her whole each day of her pathetic life beneath the heavy brocade covers she hated, with the morning light from Tiyrns—a city she only saw from her veranda—shining in the cathedral windows across her room.

No one had heard from him. When she’d inquired, her father’s nurse said simply that the king had relayed a message to Isadora stating that Theron was attending to Argonaut business.

Which meant none-of-her-business business.

But Isadora knew that wasn’t true. Theron had gone looking for her because she’d run off. And something had happened to him.

Heavy footsteps crossed the sitting-room floor outside her door, followed by the loud rap of knuckles against wood and Saphira’s strained voice, urging the visitor to leave and let the princess sleep.

Isadora swallowed and pulled the covers up to her chest. She hated feeling weak and timid in front of the Argonauts, especially in front of Theron, because he was so big and strong and…robust. Hated, even more, being stuck in this blasted bed and looking like the weakling she really was inside.

“Y-Yes?” she managed in what even she knew was a pathetic voice.

Great commanding presence for the future Queen of Argolea to present to her loyal subjects, Isa.

She cleared her throat.

“My lady,” Saphira said from the other room. “The Argonaut Demetrius is here to see you. Are you receiving?”

Demetrius? Here? Now?

Of all the Argonauts, Demetrius hated her the most, more so even than the rest of the Argonauts put together, though she didn’t know why. And that was saying a lot, considering the Argonauts had a real chip on their shoulders about anything dealing with politics. All of them except Theron. He was the only one who never seemed put out about having to set foot on royal ground when summoned.

“My lady?”

The hair on the back of Isadora’s neck stood up straight as she thought of Theron again. What if Demetrius had come here to relay bad news?

Oh, gods. This couldn’t be good.

“C-Come in.”

Both heavy doors swung open as if they weighed nothing. And the guardian who stepped through the opening was as startling as the crash of wood hitting wall.

Demetrius was the biggest of the Argonauts, at just over six-seven and close to three hundred pounds of pure steel. His features seemed carved out of marble—square jaw, straight nose, striking dimple in his chin and deep-set mocha eyes. Short dark hair framed his face, and the body beneath the black leather duster and skin-tight black pants was as impenetrable as any castle keep. So were his thoughts. He had a don’t-mess-with-me air that permeated every room he stepped into, and never had Isadora seen him smile.

Sometimes she wondered if he even could.

“Your Highness,” Saphira said in a frantic voice, “I apologize. He wouldn’t be deterred. I told him you weren’t well enough for visitors today. But he—”

“It’s all right, Saphira.” Isadora pushed herself higher into the pillows. “I’ll see him.”

Don’t back down. Don’t look weak. Stand your ground.

Or lay on it, as the case may be.

Demetrius didn’t bow or nod or acknowledge the heir to the throne in any way, not that Isadora expected him to. The Argonauts were, collectively, the black sheep of the race. And Demetrius, even blacker.

Though they’d been chosen by Zeus and appointed as protectors of the race when it was established over three thousand years ago, few in the kingdom today understood or approved of their role. They saw the Argonauts as violent warriors given too much power by the king. Rogue individuals who spent most of their time in the human world hunting daemons, which were really no threat to their society.

Truth be told, up until last week, Isadora had feared the Argonauts like everyone else. She’d regarded them as dangerous rebels who reveled in their power and lived for the killing. She’d even found herself agreeing of late with the Council’s anti-Argonaut propaganda campaign, which preached that so long as the portal was protected, Argolea was safe and the Argonauts weren’t needed. Those who applied for permission from the Council to cross over into the human world to satisfy their curiosity did so at their own risk. Therefore, what was the big threat?

But then Isadora had found her father’s letters. And she’d realized just why the Argonauts were so important. And so dangerous. Right then, she’d discovered the entire truth.

“To what do I owe this unexpected encounter, Argonaut?” She tried to command an air of authority from her regal bed but knew she did a half-assed job. She was in no position—physically or mentally—to command even an ounce of authority.

A snarl curled one side of Demetrius’s mouth. “No one’s heard from Theron since he went looking for you six days ago. I know you think your own asinine reasons for going to the human realm were warranted, but I disagree, Highness.”

His last word was spoken with such distaste, he might have punched her in the stomach. The effect was the same. Had she thought she held any authority over him?

Think again.

“Because of you,” he went on, “we may have lost one of our own. I want to know exactly where you went and what you saw.”

She was still reeling from his lack of social grace, but one thing got through loud and clear: the hint of gloating in his voice.

For a horrifying moment, she wondered if Demetrius wanted Theron dead.

But that was ludicrous, right? They were kin, born of the same guardian class.

Her spine stiffened. “You would be wise to watch your tongue, Argonaut.”

The look he sent her chilled her to the bone, but she lifted her chin anyway, straightened her shoulders and remembered she was royalty. It wasn’t wise to test an Argonaut, especially a righteously ticked off one, but at some point she needed to stop being the weakling everyone expected her to be and stand up for herself. If, gods forbid, something had happened to Theron in the human realm, then as soon as her father passed, she was on her own. And the command of this ragtag group would fall to her.

Gods help her.

“You are not my queen,” he snarled, his gaze roving over her as if he could see through the sheets and her nightdress below all the way to her naked flesh. And the contempt brewing there said he wasn’t impressed. “Not yet, anyway, and not likely, from the looks of things here. I answer only to the king. And to my kinsmen. You, Princess, would be wise to watch your tongue with me.”

Isadora refused to swallow or show an ounce of intimidation. Theron frightened her at times, but she knew he’d never do anything to harm her. The others—especially Demetrius—were a completely different story.

“I told the servant your kin sent here yesterday everything I knew,” she said in a voice she hoped like Hades didn’t shake. “When I left Theron, he was fine. You ask the wrong person.”

He stepped closer to the bed, his eyes narrowing on her face like a cobra ready to strike. “Oh, I think not, Highness.”

Isadora stiffened.

“Do not think it has escaped my attention that you still refrain from declaring what was so damn important in the human realm in the first place. If Theron is dead because of you, my kinsmen will find out what you are hiding. And royalty or not, we will seek vengeance.”

He would. That was certain. But not over his grief for Theron.

No, Demetrius would seek vengeance for the simple pleasure of doing so and the promise of a kill.

He towered over her, mere feet from her bed. It was clear to both of them he could do whatever he wanted to her before anyone outside would hear her scream.

She closed her mouth tight.

Seconds passed between them, a virtual stare-down that left her as cold as she imagined the blood pumping in his veins to be. Finally, she gathered her courage and swung her legs over the side of the mattress.

Though it took every ounce of strength she had in her, she slowly pushed to her feet. Even when she stood, he was still nearly a foot and a half taller than her, but she refused to show an ounce of weakness. The crimson robe she wore fell open, revealing the white nightgown beneath, but his eyes didn’t stray downward. To him she was nothing.

“Twice you have challenged me, Argonaut. There will not be a third. You are dismissed.”

“Princess,” he sneered, “you shake.” He stepped so close, she had to crane her neck to look up at him, and still they didn’t touch. A malevolent, knowing smile cut across his lips. One that seriously made her want to step back.

She fought the urge.

“Tell me, Princess. Do I frighten you?”

Perspiration slid down her skin and pooled at the base of her spine. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He leaned down so his lips were a breath from her ear. And for a moment, she wanted him to touch her. Just once. So she could have the connection and see into his future and what he was planning, as she’d been able to do so often in the past.

The only problem was, she wasn’t sure her powers would work this time.

“You should be,” he whispered in a chilling tone. “You would be wise to be very afraid.”

“Demetrius. Enough.”

They both turned at the harsh command and looked toward the doorway. Theron stood just inside the room, every bit as dark and brooding and dangerous as the commander he was.

Relief swept through Isadora’s frail body. She braced a hand on the mattress to steady herself as Demetrius stepped away. One quick glance up confirmed what she suspected. Contempt slid across Demetrius’s features before he masked it quickly with indifference.

The kinsmen shared quiet words at the door that Isadora couldn’t hear. Demetrius cast her one last withering glare before stalking out of the room.

All her energy flagged. She wanted to flop back onto the bed she detested, but she still hated to show weakness.

Theron walked toward the bed as if he owned the room, those massive boots clomping across the tile floor, the sound echoing in her head. And for a moment it struck her as odd he was wearing denim jeans—something she’d never seen him wear before—but then she looked back up at his face, saw the harsh, disapproving lines there, and her interest in his state of dress left her. “You’re pale again, Isadora.”

His voice was direct and firm. Not the voice of a concerned fiancé but of a general, commanding his troops. Without meaning to, she backed up until her legs hit the mattress.

Good gods, this was the ándras who would soon be her husband. There was no reason for her to be afraid of him. She’d just been reminded her father could have chosen any of the other Argonauts—much more to her distaste—and all of them would have been ten times worse than Theron. So why did the thought suddenly terrify her?

Stop looking at him like he’s a leper, and buck up.

She drew in a calming breath and shored up her courage. The situation sucked, but she needed to make the best of it. For both their sakes. “Your kinsmen have been worried. I think they were afraid something had happened to you.”

“Did Demetrius hurt you?”

His big body seemed to suck up all the air around him as he drew close. She craned her neck back to look up at his face and was struck by the harsh lines and unfriendly features. “Heavens, no. Why would you think that?”

“Because you look like you’re about ready to mop the floor with that gown of yours.”

“Gown? I—”

He swept her off her feet before the protest reached her lips, then laid her back in her godforsaken bed. “Hades, Isadora. You look no better than when I saw you last.”

His touch was warm against her clothing. Warm, and gone so fast she barely had time to register the sensation. He drew the thick, oppressive covers over her again and tugged them up to her chin.

She immediately pushed them down to her waist. What was that smell? She drew a deep breath. Lavender. Had he been injured?

She quickly pushed the question aside because it didn’t matter. He was here, and he was healthy, and he’d never liked females worrying over him.

“Theron, I’m fine.”

If he heard her, he didn’t respond. Instead, he strode across the room, jerked the door open and barked orders at Saphira in the sitting room. Isadora heard Saphira’s shocked response, then gynaíka footsteps scattering away.

He closed the door and strode back to her, his dark hair swaying as he moved. He made it as far as the end of the bed and stopped. “Tell me what you were doing in that club.”

Oh, Hades. Had she really expected him to let that one pass? Gods, she’d been fooling herself.

“I—I was curious.”

“Don’t lie to me, Isadora. I’m not Demetrius or your father or your humble maidservant.”

“Handmaiden.”

“Semantics.” His jaw tightened. “I haven’t told anyone where you were, but as your future husband, I think I have a right to know about the tendencies of my soon-to-be wife. How did you get by my guards into the human world? And why did you go there, specifically?”

Oh, boy. Isadora pursed her lips, glanced down at the heavy covers. She couldn’t tell him about Orpheus and how he’d helped her. That would just cause too many problems. But could she tell him the rest? Indecision warred inside her. Did he already know about the half-breeds? About her father? About the reason her father and every king before him continued to send the Argonauts into the human world amid growing disapproval of the race?

She wasn’t sure. And it wasn’t her place to tell him. Not yet. Not until her father was dead and she ruled Argolea.

If she ruled Argolea.

“I was just curious, Theron.” When he huffed in exasperation, she added quickly, “After my father announced our…engagement…I became nervous. You know the rules of the aristocracy. You know I’m…intact.” Though it shamed her to admit her virginity to him, she knew he suspected it, and he’d discover the truth as soon as they were married anyway, so she buried the embarrassment and went on. “I heard talk about human skin clubs such as that one. I went to see what every other gynaíka in the kingdom probably already knows. I didn’t want to displease you with my inexperience.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. At least not completely. She just chose to omit the fact that the idea of sex with him scared the crap out of her.

She held her breath and waited for his response, but he only studied her with unreadable eyes. Just about the time she was sure he wasn’t going to say anything, he let out a long, frustrated breath.

“Isadora, you cannot displease me. If anything, I’m the one who is inexperienced. This royalty, protocol, procedure, skata, I don’t know what to call it. All of it is beyond my comprehension. I know this situation isn’t what either of us expected, but it’s our responsibility to make it work.”

His words should have comforted her. Except they were spoken in that same hard, flat, commanding voice he always used with her. The one that made her think he was ordering her to feel at ease.

It didn’t work that way for her.

Resentment brewed in her veins as she studied him—those dark eyes, the stubble on his jaw, the tumble of black hair around his face. She guessed to other gynaíka he was attractive. To her he was everything she didn’t want.

And looking closer, she saw the same thing reflected back at her.

He didn’t want to bind himself to her any more than she wanted to be bound. He was giving up just as much as she was. More, maybe.

She took a deep breath and eased back against the pillows, suddenly more tired than she ever remembered being.

“You need rest, Isadora. I have business to attend to with the Argonauts, but I’ll be back for the binding ceremony in a few days. If you need me between now and then, you know how to get in touch with me.”

Isadora nodded. Through his servant, at Lerna, his estate in the forests outside Tiyrns. She’d never seen it, but imagined it often—soaring ceilings, walls of glass, as massive and grand as he was. Would he take her there after they were married? Would she even want to go?

Probably not, and no. Sickness pooled in her stomach as she faced the grim reality that in a matter of days they would be married. Bound together. Permanently. That part of her soul that had never been at ease clawed to be set free.

“Good night, Isadora.”

She had no words to offer in response.

As if he knew, he nodded and disappeared.

Alone and spent, Isadora slid down into the pillows and stared up at the vaulted ceiling above with its intricate wood beams. She tried to clear her mind of everything so she could sleep, but one thought kept pinging around in her brain.

Acacia.

If only there had been a way…

Theron turned at the base of the grand staircase and headed for the king’s suite of rooms on the fourth floor of the castle. Enormous Grecian columns flanked the massive hallway. Plush furnishings, gilded mirrors, statuary and fresh flowers atop pedestals and marble tables filled the space around him as he moved. Wealth dripped from every trinket, from the velvet curtains at the enormous windows to the gold-dusted doors he passed along his way.

The place so totally wasn’t him, his shoulders tightened with every step he took. How could the king or Isadora stand it? How in Hades would he manage living in this mausoleum? He could barely walk down the hall without feeling the overwhelming need to run for freedom.

Just as he reached the end of the hall, the king’s door opened and Callia stepped out with her healer’s bag in tow. He waited until she turned and saw him before speaking.

“Callia.”

“Theron.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and gave him the once-over. “I see the rumors about you were true. I smell lavender. Is there anything you’d like me to look at?”

Always the same Callia. Direct and to the point.

“No,” he said. “I’m well enough.” Thanks to Casey.

He quickly pushed thoughts of the human out of his mind. “Tell me about Isadora. Her health concerns me.”

Callia cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward the king’s doorway, then motioned for Theron to join her across the hall, out of earshot.

“Yes,” she said when they reached the staggering windows overlooking the stone courtyard below. “Theron, I’m not sure how to tell you this but, there’s no other way to say it. Isadora’s dying.”

Her words should have elicited a reaction, but all Theron felt was…nothing.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. A tiny part of him was relieved. And that emotion angered him more than the misery he knew he should be feeling.

“You’re sure of this?” he asked. “How? She looks—”

“I’ve consulted every book I have, looking for something—anything—that’s remotely similar. None of the traditional healing methods have worked. Something is broken inside her, only I can’t figure out what. It’s like…”

“What?”

She frowned. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Nothing could be crazier than knowing our kingdom is about to lose both its king and its heir. Don’t hold back from me, Callia. What?”

She let out a breath. “It’s almost like she’s losing that part of herself which is inherently Argolean. Her immune system, which is normally strong, is the weakest I’ve ever seen. It’s almost as if her human half is taking over.”

Theron glanced around the posh room but saw none of it. “Have you told anyone else this?”

“No. You’re the only one. I mentioned her fading health to the king, but I don’t want to put more stress on him than necessary. He hasn’t seen her since she was returned to the kingdom. I’m afraid her situation could push him over the edge.”

Theron glanced toward the cathedral window and the view of Tiyrns down the hill below. A bird flew over the parapet, swooped low into the courtyard and landed on the fountain’s edge. He followed the flap of its wings as the time line he’d been ticking off in his mind jumped to light speed. He’d spent precious hours with Casey, when he’d been needed here.

“How long?” he asked. “How long do you think she has left?”

“I’m not sure,” Callia said softly at his side. “Could be days. Weeks. Possibly longer. But one thing’s certain, Theron. She’s not strong enough to produce an heir. A pregnancy would seal her death warrant.”

No, he’d been wrong. He did feel something. A shred of impending loss for Isadora. And a low, searing ache at the bottom of his heart for their race. This changed everything.

His gaze snapped to Callia. “This goes no further. The Council cannot be told.”

“You’re the only one. As her future mate, it’s your burden to bring this to the Council of Elders when you see fit.”

He nodded, though it was a duty he didn’t particularly look forward to. He was a fighter, a soldier who commanded an elite band of guardians against those who would destroy their world if they could. He cared little of politics and status and the bickerings of the Council. If Isadora died without producing an heir—even if he did marry her—the Council would never allow him to become king. And the direction of the Argonauts would shift forever.

He looked toward the king’s bedroom door.

“Try not to stay longer than necessary,” Callia said. “He’s frail. If you have any other questions regarding the princess, come find me.”

Callia stepped around him, leaving him alone in the deserted grand hall. When she disappeared from sight, he rubbed a hand over his face, and fleetingly thought of Casey. Staying with her would have been a helluva lot easier and way more pleasurable than coming back to all this.

The king’s nurse rose from behind a large desk when he stepped into the outer sitting room. Theron waited while she checked to see if the king was up for a visitor.

When she returned, her lips were drawn down in a disapproving frown and lines creased the skin between her eyes. It was a look he’d seen often from her over the last few weeks. Not that he cared.

“Not long,” she said. “He needs his rest.”

He rapped on the bedroom door and waited. And told himself that somehow he’d find a way to save Isadora. It was his duty, not only as the leader of the Argonauts, but as her future husband.

“Come in, son,” a weak voice called from the other side of the door. “I’ve been waiting for you.”