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Lagos closed his eyes, arms outstretched, as if he thought the wind might carry him away. After a long, tense moment, the storm subsided, and the wind ceased.
Cyrus allowed himself to breathe and looked at Lagos with newfound respect. “You weren’t afraid of it?”
“Like I said,” Lagos said tersely. “I’ve endured worse.”
Cyrus’s eyebrows lifted, and he couldn’t help but feel impressed. He knew firsthand the magic of the Book of Souls feasted on fear. If Lagos had shown any inkling of terror, the magic would have attacked.
The only reason it hadn’t was because Lagos had embraced the challenge.
“What spell am I looking for?” Lagos asked, gingerly flipping through pages.
“The book will know.”
Lagos’s gaze flicked up to Cyrus, then back to the book. He stepped back again, waiting. Wind rustled the pages, and they flipped of their own accord, stopping at a spell about halfway into the book.
Cyrus drew closer, peering at the ancient text. He hadn’t read this language in centuries. “Can you translate it?”
“Yes.” Lagos lifted his hand, his finger tracing over the words with delicate care. After muttering to himself under his breath, he said clearly, “To revive a soul in the Underworld, it must be directly infused with the powerful essence of one born of death magic.”
“Does it say anything about a soul with divine blood?”
Lagos’s finger trailed down the page until he stopped, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “To revive the soul of a god or goddess, soul magic is required.”
Cyrus nodded, expecting this. Soul magic was born of his god blood. Each time he used it, it required a piece of his own soul. Before Prue, he hadn’t used it often because the price was so steep. But when he’d been traveling with her in the mortal realm and she’d fallen down the mountain, he hadn’t hesitated; he’d used that magic immediately, just to save her.
And he would do it again. Even at the expense of his own life.
He felt Lagos’s questioning eyes on him, but he kept his gaze pinned on the worn parchment of the book. “If I recall correctly, we should be able to find all the ingredients here in the vault.”
“Cyrus,” Lagos said slowly. “Exactly how do you intend to infuse the queen with the essence of one born of death magic?”
“Simple.” Cyrus lifted his eyes to meet Lagos’s. “I will offer up myself.”
MISJUDGED
PANDORA
If it weren’t for the pleasant ocean breeze wafting in the air, the temperature would have been uncomfortably warm for Pandora, especially with the long sleeves of her black silk gown. Why had she decided to wear black, anyway?
Wishing she’d worn something thin and sleeveless like the courtiers she passed by, Pandora followed Sol down the grand staircase that led to the entrance doors. Sol greeted every single person they passed, except for the servants, of course, whom he ignored completely.
To combat this snobbery, Pandora made an effort to smile or address every servant she came across. She remembered being Prue’s lady’s maid in the Underworld. Acting as the help truly had made her invisible.
But without the servants, the palace couldn’t run at all.
They deserved far better.
The thought nagged at her mind, twisting her thoughts as she realized that everyone—including the servants—would perish after her plan was completed.
Doesn’t matter, she told herself. This whole place needs to burn. It can’t be helped.
But she was believing it less and less every time she thought it.
“You know the servants are here, too, don’t you?” Pandora snapped as they descended the staircase leading to the courtyard overlooking the beach.
“Of course I do,” Sol said over his shoulder.
“So what, you just ignore them?”
