She arched her brows. “Typical. The harlot got stoned to death.”

His voice hoarse, he said, “Don’t talk like that. Please.” He took her hand in his, never wanting to let it go.

She gazed up at him as if she was measuring the emotions in him—the ones he didn’t bother to hide. How asinine he’d been! He wanted to make a life with her, a marriage and family. To have all those things, he need only look to their future. It was there—for the taking!

She was.

Unless he’d already ruined things beyond repair.

“What do the markers say?” she asked.

“Pain confesses all. And Time cares naught.” He now comprehended that what he’d just gone through wasn’t real.

But the lesson had been.

“What does it mean?”

“Time cared naught when it allowed itself to repeat.” With his free hand, he tucked a lock of raven hair behind her ear. “And pain clarified my thoughts about us.”

“That sounds . . . intense.”

You have no idea. “We need to move away from the edge of this zone. If we’d both crossed into it, we could’ve been there for eternity. And I’d rather spend forever with the pest that is.” He brushed the backs of his fingers along her delicate jawline, vowing to all the Lore, to all the gods, that he would protect this woman for eternity.

“You haven’t stopped touching me, Thronos.”

“You’ll have to grow accustomed to that—”

A demon war bugle sounded from not far in the distance.

She gazed over her shoulder. “They wouldn’t be signaling a charge during the day . . .”

“Unless they’re coming for those keys. Let’s put some distance between us and them.”

“Where? We can’t go back. And we don’t know which way this zone’s edge extends.”

He craned his head up to the sky, biting out a curse. “We can’t go up.”

Outlined by bursts of lightning, a pack of Volar demons hovered above. An advance contingent? Their position pinned Thronos and Lanthe against the hell zone.

Their backs were against an invisible wall.

THIRTY-FOUR

If I take you into the air, they’ll rip you from me,” Thronos grated as the ground began to vibrate beneath their feet.

“More are coming!” Lanthe cried. Just beyond the brush, demon foot soldiers were charging toward them.

“I’ll have to fight them here.”

She’d seen him victorious against a number of ghouls, but demons were cunning.

With reluctance, Thronos released her hand, bringing his wings in tight to strike. “Stay behind me—right at the edge of those markers. The demons won’t go near them.”

She edged back.

“But don’t cross the line, Lanthe—”

The first wave broke from the brush. So many of them!

In a blur, swords arced out, whistling all around Thronos. He struck with both wings. Heads rolled across the ground like horned bowling balls. Jugular blood painted the silver grass red.

More demons advanced. More died. When Thronos’s wings whipped like sails, billowing the air, a fine mist of crimson sprayed over her face.

Any demon who attacked paid with his life. Thronos decapitated with a ruthless efficiency.

But they kept coming. Even the demons at the back started firing on Thronos, lobbing a hail of spears and daggers, fire and ice grenades.

He had to use one wing as a constant shield against the sky as more warriors closed in, swarming like ants from a kicked mound. He deflected the volleys, but he was getting slower, expending so much strength. He couldn’t stall them for much longer.

Only a matter of time.

Then he would die, and she’d be captured. Unless she did something. When in trouble . . . Portal!

She had some power, but was it enough to create a gateway to a different world, under pressure, just two days after her last one?

It’ll never happen.

Still, she raised her hand, dispelling sorcery right at the edge of the hell zone. As she labored to split the seam of this reality, Thronos must have felt the energy; he turned to her with his blood-wetted wings splayed, a warning in his eyes: Do not run from me.

She gasped. In the lightning flashes, he looked like a . . . legend.

Like an avenging angel.

From hell.

Every inch of his skin was coated with others’ blood, his own as well. Gashes sliced his flesh, bisecting ancient scars. Stark against the crimson, his eyes were fully onyx—and locked on Lanthe as he began fighting his way toward her.

A rift was opening, drawing her attention from him! Come on, portal! Come on! Almost big enough for her to step through. Rothkalina, Rothkalina, Rothkalina, she repeated like a mantra.

There was nothing to stop her from leaving Pandemonia. Could she abandon Thronos to save herself? To return to her family?

After that kiss . . .

Look back over your shoulder at him again, and you’ll regret it. Still, at the threshold, Lanthe bit her lip and turned back.

“Don’t!” His voice was rife with pain—as if he already knew she would leave him behind. “Don’t run from me, lamb!”

Lamb.

He hadn’t called her that since they were children. She remembered their last day together as they’d sat beneath his wings. She’d sighed that she loved him. His voice had been thick when he’d replied, “I-I love you too, lamb.”

Damn him! She couldn’t leave him.