With a look of commiseration, she started on the salad of seaweed, sea lettuce, and kelp. She found it surprisingly tasty.

Once Nereus returned, Thronos turned surly straightaway.

The god noticed. “You show no interest in my lovely nymphs?”

“Melanthe is my mate,” Thronos said with unmistakable pride. “I have interest in only one female.”

Nereus’s gaze was shrewd. “Ah, but does the interest run both ways? Well, sorceress? Are you as besotted with the Vrekener as he is with you?”

I might be falling for him.

But the next step in their relationship was her accompanying him to Skye Hall, an all-in scenario. Going with him to heaven would be the craziest thing she’d ever done. Yet as she peered over at him, she realized that wasn’t true.

Letting this one go might be.

How proud Thronos had sounded when he’d said, “Melanthe is my mate,” declaring interest only in her. For years, she’d imagined what it would be like having a male to prize her and hold her hand in public. To take her to court events.

Instead of into the shadows for whispered assignations.

Thronos would never wince at his watch, claiming, “Got a really early morning tomorrow, sweet.” He would never, ever blaze.

The situation with him—with their families and factions—was anything but ideal. Yet Thronos, the man, was getting there.

“We’re taking it day by day,” she finally told the god, earning a black look from Thronos. “So, let’s get back to you.” Resting her chin on her hand, she gazed at Nereus with—seemingly—utter absorption. “Won’t you tell me about the Marianas Trench siege? That was supposed to have been a doozy!”

She planned to go in for the kill soon. Would Nereus let them leave immediately? Or make them wait till after the feast? She wanted to get Thronos out of here as soon as possible, before the brew hit him.

“I remember that one,” Nereus began. “I was only a millennium or two in age. . . .”

Once he’d recounted the tale, she sighed, “The stuff of legend. Nereus, your hospitality has been as fabulous as your spectacular realm. I can’t wait to tell my fellow Sorceri all about you, as well as my friends among the witches and Valkyrie. The Vertas alliance will know of your generosity. . . .” She trailed off, frowning at a nearby wine pourer.

The nymph was giving Thronos another assessing glance.

No, not assessing. Something darker.

Lanthe gazed around, saw other nymphs with the same expression. They looked . . . proprietary.

As if they already owned him.

—Stop drinking, Thronos. We might be in trouble.—

—This ale is hitting me hard, Melanthe.— Even telepathically, his words were slurred.

When fogginess overtook her as well, she knew it wasn’t only the demon brew affecting him. —I need you to fight it.—

At once, she scented blood. He was digging his claws into his palms. But it was a losing proposition.

She swung her head around at Nereus, and almost toppled out of her chair. “What are you doing?” she snapped, her words sounding far away. The Nereids weren’t the only ones looking proprietary.

As her head lolled, she heard Thronos murmur aloud, “Lanthe?”

Black dots swirled at the edges of her vision. The last thing she saw was Nereus throwing back his head to give a loud laugh.

And then nothing.

FORTY-THREE

Lanthe woke in a cavernous chamber, atop a bed with a shell canopy.

“Where am I?” she asked groggily. “What happened?”

She was having a hard time marshaling her thoughts, felt like she was riding waves—or beset by that spinning-bed feeling. Had she drunk that much wine? Had she wandered into the wrong room, then passed out fully dressed?

She wished she could say that had never happened. But then, Lanthe liked her wine. So where was Thronos?

With bleary eyes, she regarded the room. Along one wall, a waterfall cascaded; scenes from under the sea played across the surface, like a TV.

Wait, was that Nereus crossing toward her?

Everything came crashing back. She and Thronos had either been drugged or bespelled!

“You’re in my private chambers, sorceress.” Nereus was leering like a kraken about to take his sacrifice. As he stalked closer, his shaft swayed under his filmy toga.

“I must have accidentally found my way in here,” she said to give him an out, though she knew he wasn’t about to take it.

A giggle sounded from beneath her.

“What the—”

Oh, for the love of gold! Lanthe wasn’t atop a mattress; she was atop a collection of curvy Nereids. They lay on their bellies, tightly nestled together.

Did Nereus sleep on them? Make love atop them?

She scrambled to her feet. “Are you kidding me?” she cried, trying to shake off whatever the god had roofied her with. “I need to get back to Thronos. He’s going to be wondering where I am.” When he woke. Wherever he woke.

Nereus kept advancing on her. She backed away from him, darting a glance out the round underwater window to her left: no help there. She was about to turn from it—until she heard a muffled shriek that vibrated the glass.

Chills broke out on her skin as she scanned the depths. A field of glittering gems drew her gaze. Her lips parted with shock.

Like the rays of the sun, the gems radiated out from a female . . . who was shackled to an anchor at the bottom of the ocean.

Her long black hair streamed across her naked body and floated above her head. The strands were coated in phosphorescence, illuminating her pale, corpselike face, her haunted violet eyes.