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“Help me, Bogart. Please.” The wounded vampire struggled against his bonds. “I’m innocent! I would never spy on the King of Agonies! I’m not a fool.”
Rathbone cut out the immortal’s tongue, as promised. A fresh howl of pain morphed into a choking fit. He tossed the muscular organ in the bucket. “Tell me more about the harpy-oracle,” he commanded the fae, replacing the dagger with a scalpel. He’d used a different weapon for each removal. So far he thought he preferred the ice pick. But he might change his mind. He had sixty-four other weapons to utilize. “Every detail.”
“Her name is Neeka the Unwanted. She’s half harpy, half oracle, as I previously stated, and all sex appeal. Her addition, not mine. She instructed me to tell you she’s the owner and operator of Greater than Greatest at Finding Stuff. She also mentioned the vampire, who is indeed a spy. He came on behalf of the Astra, and he’s a herald of their newest task.” A pause. Then, “I’ll be honest. Neeka might not be entirely sane. Immediately after she explained the situation, I asked her a question, but she’d already forgotten who I was and what she’d said. She threatened to castrate me.”
Neeka the Unwanted. Not a name familiar to Rathbone. Had this harpacle spoken true or lied? For that matter, had this prince spoken true or lied? In the Underworld, you could trust no one at any time. Including yourself.
“Despite this supposed insanity,” he said, “you decided to do as she requested, three months late, putting your life in my hands because...?”
“I owed her, and I always pay my debts. But I’m not late. She told me when to come.”
Yes, but why would any oracle worth her salt summon an enraged King of Agonies to her doorstep? And that was exactly what she’d done with this stunt. Rathbone would be in her face before sunset. If he wasn’t convinced of her authenticity and talents, she would die on his table like thousands of others.
He didn’t like being reminded of his only failure.
The scalpel bent in his grip as memories assailed him. In a split second of time, he remembered how, all those centuries ago, he’d etched the Song of Life into Lore’s bones, one after the other. How innumerable demons had surrounded him while he’d chiseled, not to stop him or launch an attack, as he’d expected, but to wait. Each time he’d completed a bone, a small contingent of the creatures had collected it and fled, laughing. Because they’d known the consequences, just as he had. Rathbone couldn’t resurrect his wife until the pieces were reunited.
Back then, he’d been forced to allow the thefts. Having begun the Song, he couldn’t pause his task without slaying Lore for good. In the end, he’d retained only the last bone he’d etched. The others, he’d soon learned, had been sold to the highest bidders.
Familiar fury bubbled, but he tamped it down. During the ensuing centuries, Rathbone had tracked the missing pieces to distant worlds, removed them from inside immortals and various creatures, found them buried underground and hidden in mazes. Now he required only six. A clavicle, an ilium, two metatarsals, the left femur, and her skull.
Though he’d never ceased his search, thousands of years had passed since he’d heard the slightest rumor about the goddess. Suddenly this Neeka could deliver everything he lacked?
A lie. Surely.
“You may go,” he told the fae. “You’ve passed on your message.” And assured the harpy-oracle’s apprehension. “If you return, I’ll kill you. Then I’ll collect everyone you love and kill them too. Eventually. No telling how many years I’ll keep your consort in my stable first.”
For dramatic effect, he shoved the crooked scalpel into the vampire’s heart. The ensuing screams provided the perfect amount of extra. Rathbone’s specialty.
As the fae’s spirit was yanked from the cell and restored to his body, wherever that happened to be, the blood-drinker regrew his tongue. Excellent.
Rathbone grabbed a pocket saw. Though he tried to focus on the newest remodel of the vampire’s mouth, his thoughts continually returned to the harpy-oracle. He might not know her, but he’d heard of the Astra Planeta. Nine sky gods who did in fact wage war against Erebus Phantom, a death god. Their rivalry rekindled every five hundred years. According to legend, the combatants followed the same pattern for each conflict. The Astra invaded a new world, subjugated its people, and completed a series of impossible tasks while Erebus worked to defeat them.
What if the vampire had come from the Astra’s camp, as advertised? A spy sent ahead of a new task involving Lore.
“If you pass out before you answer my remaining questions,” he said when the male grew too weak to shout, “things will be worse when you awaken. That, I promise you.”
Too late. The prisoner went quiet, sagging into unconsciousness.
Anger blended with impatience, singeing deep. Rathbone dropped his newest weapon on the tray, metal clattering against metal. If he couldn’t get answers from the vampire, he might as well visit the harpy-oracle sooner rather than later.
He geared to flash to Harpina, intending to hunt her down. A prickle on his nape bolted him in place. Another intrusion was imminent. Who dared approach him this time?
A spirit wearing a long robe the color of pitch appeared beside the door, exactly where the fae had stood, his wrists also bound by chains. Disheveled white curls framed a pale face with thick black brows, ebony irises, and a large, hooked nose.
Well, well. Erebus Phantom himself.
Curious, Rathbone stood, wiped his hands on the apron, and pivoted to face his newest guest. His casual expression endured, revealing nothing of his emotions. Another specialty. He’d learned early: anything other than total confidence invited more problems.
“May I help you?” he asked with a deceptively pleasant tone.
“You may. But first, introductions should be made. I am Erebus the Deathless, son of Chaos the Abyss. And you are Rathbone the Only, son of Argus the All-Seeing.”
“Thank you for the reminder I didn’t need. I assure you, I haven’t forgotten who I am or who helped conceive me.” Most beings tended to identify him based on his accomplishments rather than his sire, a notorious being he’d never met. A true shapeshifter like Rathbone, able to shift into anything or anyone. Argus had been covered in mátia, too. A reason he was chosen to serve as a bodyguard for Hera, queen of the Greeks and Rathbone’s mother.
From what he’d pieced together, Hera had slept with Argus, hoping to spawn an army of protectors just like him. She’d gotten pregnant, as intended, but thanks to her jealous husband things hadn’t progressed as she’d probably envisioned. Her withered crone’s heart hadn’t helped matters, either.
“Very well. I’ll skip the pleasantries and platitudes. I come bearing news.” Erebus spread his arms as far as the shackles allowed, seemingly unconcerned by his captivity. “Soon, an Astra Planeta named Azar the Memory Keeper will be given thirty days to resurrect and murder your beloved Lore. The survival and ascension of all Astra depend on his triumph. As you can imagine, Azar will cross any line to succeed.”
