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“I’ll admit that it does seem…beyond belief.” The words were forced between clenched teeth. “But I have no choice but to accept the truth.”
Levet clicked his tongue. When he’d first arrived in the minotaur homeland his pride had been bloated by the thought of being the center of a prophecy. And even more bloated at being called a god. It’d taken the sight of that poor female being sucked into the hole to remind him that he’d known thousands of seers and oracles and fortune-tellers. It didn’t matter if they were legit or scam artists, their predictions were always sketchy. And just like beauty, the truth of the prophecy was in the eyes of the beholder.
“Your seer has never been wrong?” Levet asked.
The male’s eyes darted away, a sure sign he was about to tell a lie. “Of course not.”
“Never?” Levet pressed.
The male’s jaw tightened. “Interpretations of the vision can vary.”
“Exactly. You admit that there have been mistakes.”
“Not mistakes. Variations.” The male stubbornly refused to admit the truth. “The seer sees what she sees, but—”
“Can you say that ten times fast?” Levet interrupted the tedious explanation.
The male flared his nostrils as his temper threatened to get the best of him. “Shut up and listen.”
Levet folded his arms over his chest. “That’s no way to speak to a god.”
The air suddenly pulsed with the threat of violence, but with an obvious effort, the minotaur battled back his urge to pummel Levet into a gooey mess.
“The vision is given by the seer,” he rasped. “It is up to us to interpret what it means.”
“Uh-huh.” Levet tilted his chin. He wasn’t afraid of the male. He’d been pummeled before. And he was starting to suspect that this male was hiding something. “Who does the interpreting?”
“The prophecy is reviewed by a council of elders, but it is the leader who decides which variation is the proper foretelling.”
“You?”
The male shrugged. “For now.”
Levet was surprised by the answer. Reclusive tribes—or herds—rarely changed leaders. That was why the leader kept them isolated. To protect his position.
“Does that mean you can get voted off the island?” Levet asked.
The minotaur frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“That crown is not permanent?”
“No, it can go to someone else.”
“How?”
The male made a sound of impatience. “The council chooses our leader.”
“Interesting.” Levet was genuinely intrigued. The bovine species was surprisingly democratic. A rare quality among demons. “And they gave the crown to you?”
The minotaur waved his hand toward the heavy circlet set between his horns. “Obviously.”
Levet sniffed his disdain. He had no respect for crowns or thrones or even royal bloodlines. He had been born a prince, but it didn’t mean he would be a decent leader. In truth, he would probably be a disaster.
“So, if you had the crown, then you were the one to interpret the vision.”
There was a tense pause. The male didn’t want to answer the question.
“Eventually,” he ground out at last.
