“No one else was going to do it!” Nïx said, just as her bat leaned in beside her ear. The soothsayer nodded to it, then murmured, “Meet me at the lightning bolt.” She gazed on fondly as the creature flew away with a screech.

“Your attention!” Skathi snapped.

“What were we talking about? Let’s be quick, then. It’s past Bertil’s bedtime.”

Jaws dropped at Nïx’s temerity.

Speaking to no one in particular, Nïx said, “And because we’re going to need her.”

“Who?” Lamia asked.

“Dora.” As if speaking to a child, Nïx said, “You asked me why I’d resurrect her, and I’m answering your question.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are all of you inebriated?”

“Continuing on,” Skathi intoned. “You claim a goddesslike power, styling yourself ever-knowing, yet you can’t even find your sister Furie.”

“Find? As in bring to light?” she asked, leaving the pantheon to puzzle over her words.

Hekate said, “You’ve been working to ally factions of immortals for the Accession, assisting Loreans of different species to find their mates. From what I understand, we’re to have a rash of halflings in future generations.”

“Halflings are formidable,” Nïx pointed out. “Think of Queen Emmaline of the Lykae, Queen Bettina of the Deathly Ones, and Mariketa the Awaited, leader of your House of Witches. Plus, Valkyries have a soft spot for halflings, since we have three vastly different parents. I guess you could call us triflings.” Broad wink.

“Why are you tirelessly seeding halflings and renewing ancient alliances?” Hekate asked. “To battle what foe?”

Nïx breathed, “The Møriør.”

The other goddesses tensed at the mention of the Bringers of Doom. They didn’t speak of the Møriør lightly.

The Valkyrie seemed unaware of the stir she’d caused. “All the harbingers are there. They descend upon us. Though the Accession exists to cull the immortal population, mortals and gods alike should fear this one.”

Lamia offered, “Nïx would sense them first,” and earned glares.

Skathi’s flames grew and grew. “You took it upon yourself to plan a defense against the Møriør? You toy with the fate of the entire Lore, Valkyrie!”

“Not defense. Offense. Why come out of the dugout for anything less? I’m not interested in a farm league. Which is why I’m here. Only a divinity—with this pantheon’s resources—could unite all of the factions.”

“You believe you can lead the charge? Against them?”

“Review: transcript of this meeting. See: farm league comment.”

Skathi drew her head back. “All of your sarcastic—”

“Multilayered.”

“—answers will not help your cause. You’re very flippant about these proceedings.”

Nïx’s playful demeanor vanished in an instant, her amber irises swirling, mercurial. “Because I’ve already seen the outcome.”

“And what is that?”

“You’ll move to dismiss my petition, telling me that I must have a cause—an area of power, a specialization of sorts. After all, you are goddess of the hunt, the Great She-Bear is goddess of shapeshifters, Lamia is goddess of some-some.”

When Lamia scowled, Nïx shrugged. “I calls ’em like I sees ’em.” Then she addressed all the goddesses: “You believe that this area of power must be a critical one. Since foresight has been taken—hat tip to the goddess Pronoea—you expect I’ll come up short. Yet, in fact, I’m going to reveal my specialization, and all of you will comprehend the inevitability of it.”

Skathi pursed her lips. “Thrall us, Valkyrie.”

Nïx paused dramatically. “I will rise from the ashes of the old ways to become Phenïx, the goddess of . . . accessions.”

THIRTY-NINE

In the belly of the beast, stygian darkness was interrupted only by glowing green filth.

Thronos had awakened to find himself trapped against a pulpy surface, held upright by meaty tentacle-like veins that snaked around his arms and legs.

Oozing cavities covered each vein; at that moment, one secreted green sludge onto his disintegrated clothing, his skin, his wings.

Pain flared, smoke rising. Acid! The putrid air was noxious, scalding his lungs. He thrashed—the need to fly surging inside him—but he couldn’t get loose.

Nïx had given him just four minutes to get himself and Melanthe free.

He darted his eyes to his right. Lanthe.

She was in the same predicament as he—attached to what looked like a stomach lining, surrounded by sizable glowing pustules. She remained unconscious, no doubt believing them still in Feveris.

Acid had eaten away parts of her skin as well, even most of her metal breastplate. The indestructible dragon gold around her neck had protected her to a degree.

A pustule burst beside her, thicker tentacles emerging from the sore to sweep up bits of her pale flesh.

To consume her.

With a bellow, Thronos thrashed with all his might, yanking at his arms. As the tentacle trapping his right arm stretched, he gazed out, spotting thousands more immortals ensnared, unconscious. The stomach walls seemed to go on for miles.

In a rush of bile, the tentacle vein around his arm ripped open. He used his claws to slash another. At his legs, he hesitated, peering over his shoulders and then down. Hundreds of feet below him, a bubbling pool of green acid awaited his fall. How damaged were his wings?