Pholus nods. “He was working with one of the sigilmarked.” His expression turns sly. “Although I heard you killed him too. Perhaps youcanbe useful, human.”
Tiberius Cotta.
“And the other man?”
“I do not know his name. Perhaps I can describe him to you.”
I can feel time ticking down, but I give him a nod.
“He has been using our poison,” a woman says, her voice a low hiss, and she steps out of the shadows. I get one glimpse of snakes where there should be hair and immediately lower my gaze, my heart rattling my ribs.
The gorgon lets out a delighted laugh. The hissing is louder now, and I fight the urge to take a step back.
Everything I’ve learned about interacting with predators—including looking them in the eye—would be the wrong choice here. I’m relatively sure the aether-enchanted bars would prevent the gorgon’s gaze from turning me to stone, but I’m unwilling to risk it.
“He harnessed our poison to use it against those who trusted him,” she continues. “His misery made me strong. The misery of men always does. I got close enough to see his memories. Would you like me to show you?”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because a man has wronged you. Women have been each other’s sword and shield since the beginning. When men turn against us, we turn to one another.”
“How will you show me?”
“Look into my eyes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Tell her she can trust me, Pholus.”
Unlike the centaur, her voice doesn’t hold quite the same amount of respect, but the griffon steps closer, drawing my attention. He holds my gaze.
“In this, you can trust her.”
“If I turn to stone, I’m going to be really annoyed.”
The centaur snorts. Taking a deep breath, I lift my head, meeting the gorgon’s eyes.
Images flash before me. Chains, sigils, the gorgon’s snakes milked of their venom.
“He cannot allow your friend to live,” the gorgon says. “He began the sacrifice and must finish it.”
More images, until I’m seeing through her eyes. The symbol of Mortuus. The sound of a muffled apology.
And a face I know well.
Albion’s face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The gorgon continues to show me her memories.
The harpy barreling into Albion, taking him unaware as she attacked. Albion throwing up a hand, but not before she slammed one powerful wing into his head.
My mind provides me with its own images—memories of every time I’ve seen Albion since Leon was attacked. Twice near the healers and once near Leon’s room.
And then standing next to me, pretending to grieve for Leon as I grieved.
Balling my fists, I breathe through the rage. How did I miss it? How?
