Earlier, when he’d finally picked up the vessel’s scent, he’d begun cutting across a forest to reach it, which was proving to be more of a risk than he’d expected.

He needed to concentrate on their escape, but now that he was thinking more clearly, he couldn’t stop replaying Melanthe’s words from the night before. Why would he be her nightmare all these years? Why would she fear when a cloud crossed the sun?

Unless she’d actually been attacked.

“Why did you say that about my line?” she asked. “Being tainted?”

Melanthe didn’t know this, but Thronos had briefly met her mother when he was eleven. And it had scared the hell out of him. “I’ll answer as soon as you admit it’s true.”

She didn’t bite, instead saying, “Speaking of communication, did you ever think about contacting me when I was in Rothkalina?”

“You know that demon realm is out of my reach. The portals have been guarded by armies for the last two reigns.”

“You could’ve sent a message to a letter station at one of the portal gates.”

“What should I have written? Dear Harlot, rumor has it that you are very happy with your new life in Rothkalina with your beloved brother Omort. I hear that you have all the gold you could ever want, and I know how much you always enjoyed a good blood orgy. Well done, Melanthe! By the way, would you like to meet for a rational discussion about our future?”

“Well. I did have a lot of gold.”

Do not strangle her!

In a matter-of-fact tone, she said, “I’m just pointing out the sole true detail about your pretend letter. Oh, and you should know . . . if you keep calling me harlot, sooner or later I’m going to have a rage blackout, and then I’ll wake up to find you—awfully sadly—dead.”

“You threaten me? A powerless, physically weak sorceress?” he sneered. “I must amend my treatment of you forthwith.”

“You’ve turned into a sarcastic, unbalanced, judgmental dick.” To herself, she muttered, “Man, can I pick ’em.”

“If you take issue with the term harlot, then perhaps you shouldn’t have slept with half the Lore.”

“Half?” she scoffed. “Three-quarters for the win!”

How could she sound so bloody uncaring, when he was insulting her character?

“Besides, I don’t take issue with the term as much as the fact that you feel you can judge me. I despise judgmental people.”

“As do most creatures who deserve to be judged.”

“You got me. I’m a ho fo sho.”

What did that mean? “You speak like a human.”

She nodded, as if that hadn’t been an insult as well. “I watch a lot of TV.”

Yet another thing they didn’t have in common. “Naturally, you choose pointless pastimes.”

“I did so much reading in my first couple of centuries—when I was in hiding from Vrekeners—that I figure I can skate a little now.”

“I marvel that you had time for anything other than your conquests.”

“So I’m a TV-watching harlot who deserves to be judged?” She gave a disheartened sigh. “Thronos, you have to know that I’ll never be what you need me to be.”

He scanned the ground for movement within the stands of trees. “I was told this long ago. I also heard that I’d never survive the injuries I sustained. Then they said I’d never fly again. Yet I did, and I do. Once I get you to my home, you will become what I need.”

“I like myself!” she cried. “Did you never consider becoming what I need, Thronos?”

“I’m confused about your preferences. Should I emulate a drunken fey? Or a slick-tongued sorcerer who beds anything that moves?” Or maybe she preferred them like her first: a leech.

Don’t think of that memory. . . . “In the Skye, I will make you understand the value of loyalty, honesty, and fidelity to a single male.”

“You just confirmed what we’ve always heard: that Vrekeners kidnap and brainwash bold, independent Sorceri females, turning them into blank-eyed slaves to their men.”

“It isn’t like that! Sorceri young are happy among us, accepted as our own.” As soon as they were disempowered.

“Uh-huh,” she said. He was beginning to recognize that was her way of indicating untruth. “They’re trapped in a dismal floating realm filled with grim, self-righteous killjoys. They are in our version of hell.”

“Since you’ll soon see the truth of my words for yourself, there’s no sense in arguing about it.”

“Because you’re taking me to Skye Hell? You think I’ll be happy among you? Accepted as your own?”

“I said other Sorceri were,” he pointed out. “Not you. You don’t deserve happiness. You deserve the full force of my revenge.”

“Revenge? After that night in the abbey, I never tried to hurt you, Thronos. I’ve just lived my life. I wish to all the gods that you could learn to live yours without your bitterest necessity.”

His rage had been so intense the night before, he only vaguely remembered calling her that. But he couldn’t regret it. Considering his still-seething wrath, his words could have come out much worse. His actions as well.

As he soared over one mountain peak, heading for another, his gaze shot downward.

Fire demons had gathered in wait. For him, their enemy. Their hands were aglow, filled with flames.