they didn’t yet know what that meant.
“I thought the Horae needed each other to harness those powers,” Isis said.
“For themselves, yes,” Apophis answered, “but with the power of the dark arts I can harness the strength in this one alone. Imagine what I will be able to do once she and I are joined. I will be able to see everything. Past, present, future. Even what the gods have planned.”
The impact of what he was implying rushed through Isadora like a wave, shutting down all other thought. If he was right, then it meant together she and her sisters had the power to look into the present, to visualize what was happening elsewhere, to tap into the future and see what others had planned, even Atalanta. And it also meant, with the strength of the Argonauts behind them, together they could ensure no one man, creature, or deity disrupted the balance of the world.
Something inside her chest solidified, as if years of wandering finally made sense. Isadora’s father, the king, had once told her she would play an important role in the world—if, that is, she stopped being so darn timid. Could it be this was her role? Not simply to rule over their realm as queen as she’d thought he meant, but to aid the Argonauts as they carried out Zeus’s ancient decree that the Eternal Guardians protect not only Argolea, but the human realm as well?
She was so lost in her thoughts she didn’t realize Apophis had moved close until she felt the chill from his hand hovering over her chest. Startled, she looked up to see one bony, gnarled hand with razor-sharp black fingernail-like claws inches from her skin.
“Yes,” he muttered. “Yes, she will do nicely. Not only is she Horae, but she is untouched.” He lowered his hand. “We will not be sending her to Atalanta as planned. We will keep her. Her virtue will fuel my powers, and once the union of our bodies and souls is complete, I will have the strength to open the portal on my own whenever I choose. Then Atalanta will bow to me, not the other way around.” He turned to Isis. “Prepare her for the ritual.”
Union of bodies and souls? Ritual?
Hold on…wait a minute…
Isis scurried off. One witch secured Isadora’s left arm to a horizontal bar that hung from the ceiling as Apophis moved across the room to reach for something from the wall. Another witch chanted in Medean at Isadora’s side. And Isadora knew right then, if Apophis so much as touched her, the world—both Argolea and the human realm—would be forever altered. Survival instincts welled inside her, triggered her anger and what little training Orpheus had given her to this point. She wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing. She wasn’t going to let this thing have her.
She dug down deep for her courage. And when Isis moved around the warlock and reached for her other arm to secure it as well, Isadora struck.
She grabbed the athamé , the black dagger hooked in Isis’s belt. Her fingers closed around the handle. She pulled back and swung. The blade caught Isis’s upper arm. The witch howled, stumbled back. Her eyes flew wide and glowed—oh, skata —yellow. Fear leaped in Isadora’s chest as Isis hissed and advanced with fury coating her features. Panicked, Isadora swung out blindly again, this time catching the witch across the jugular.
Bright yellow blood sprayed across the room, splashed over Isadora and the ground. She screamed when it connected with the skin on her forearms, sizzled, and popped. Across the room, Apophis screeched and jumped back, as if the blood had burned him too. Isis’s eyes went bug wide; her hands flew to her neck. As her body slumped to the floor, her face twisted and transformed. The youthfulness and beauty faded before Isadora’s eyes, leaving behind gnarled and wrinkled skin, canary yellow eyes, sharp pointed teeth, and hair that was no longer short and stylish but made up of hundreds of small snake heads, striking and hissing.
Horror pounded against Isadora’s
“I thought the Horae needed each other to harness those powers,” Isis said.
“For themselves, yes,” Apophis answered, “but with the power of the dark arts I can harness the strength in this one alone. Imagine what I will be able to do once she and I are joined. I will be able to see everything. Past, present, future. Even what the gods have planned.”
The impact of what he was implying rushed through Isadora like a wave, shutting down all other thought. If he was right, then it meant together she and her sisters had the power to look into the present, to visualize what was happening elsewhere, to tap into the future and see what others had planned, even Atalanta. And it also meant, with the strength of the Argonauts behind them, together they could ensure no one man, creature, or deity disrupted the balance of the world.
Something inside her chest solidified, as if years of wandering finally made sense. Isadora’s father, the king, had once told her she would play an important role in the world—if, that is, she stopped being so darn timid. Could it be this was her role? Not simply to rule over their realm as queen as she’d thought he meant, but to aid the Argonauts as they carried out Zeus’s ancient decree that the Eternal Guardians protect not only Argolea, but the human realm as well?
She was so lost in her thoughts she didn’t realize Apophis had moved close until she felt the chill from his hand hovering over her chest. Startled, she looked up to see one bony, gnarled hand with razor-sharp black fingernail-like claws inches from her skin.
“Yes,” he muttered. “Yes, she will do nicely. Not only is she Horae, but she is untouched.” He lowered his hand. “We will not be sending her to Atalanta as planned. We will keep her. Her virtue will fuel my powers, and once the union of our bodies and souls is complete, I will have the strength to open the portal on my own whenever I choose. Then Atalanta will bow to me, not the other way around.” He turned to Isis. “Prepare her for the ritual.”
Union of bodies and souls? Ritual?
Hold on…wait a minute…
Isis scurried off. One witch secured Isadora’s left arm to a horizontal bar that hung from the ceiling as Apophis moved across the room to reach for something from the wall. Another witch chanted in Medean at Isadora’s side. And Isadora knew right then, if Apophis so much as touched her, the world—both Argolea and the human realm—would be forever altered. Survival instincts welled inside her, triggered her anger and what little training Orpheus had given her to this point. She wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing. She wasn’t going to let this thing have her.
She dug down deep for her courage. And when Isis moved around the warlock and reached for her other arm to secure it as well, Isadora struck.
She grabbed the athamé , the black dagger hooked in Isis’s belt. Her fingers closed around the handle. She pulled back and swung. The blade caught Isis’s upper arm. The witch howled, stumbled back. Her eyes flew wide and glowed—oh, skata —yellow. Fear leaped in Isadora’s chest as Isis hissed and advanced with fury coating her features. Panicked, Isadora swung out blindly again, this time catching the witch across the jugular.
Bright yellow blood sprayed across the room, splashed over Isadora and the ground. She screamed when it connected with the skin on her forearms, sizzled, and popped. Across the room, Apophis screeched and jumped back, as if the blood had burned him too. Isis’s eyes went bug wide; her hands flew to her neck. As her body slumped to the floor, her face twisted and transformed. The youthfulness and beauty faded before Isadora’s eyes, leaving behind gnarled and wrinkled skin, canary yellow eyes, sharp pointed teeth, and hair that was no longer short and stylish but made up of hundreds of small snake heads, striking and hissing.
Horror pounded against Isadora’s
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