“Loosen up, Avvy,” Xtelle said, her words a little slurred. “If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s kill when I’m lii-ber-ated.”
“We are here to rescue, my Queen.”
“Save, slaughter. ’Sall the same thing. Oh, look at that! I hate it.” The rip of roots, and, yes, definitely a scream, filled the air.
“Jungle,” I said to Myra. “Did we know there’d be a jungle?”
“Bathin said it was a garden. Try not to touch the plants.”
I tucked my elbows in and stepped over strewn plant matter, ignoring the crunching and little groans of pain. We finally caught up with the demons in front.
They’d all stopped on the edge of the jungle, looking out through the small space Xtelle had cleared. Bathin’s hands were planted on his hips. Xtelle and Avnas had tipped their heads together, whispering furiously.
Jean and Hogan eased around to stand next to Bathin.
“Oh,” Jean whispered, as she saw what was beyond. “Shit.”
The stone heated against my chest again. I slapped my free hand over it hoping it would calm down.
I tapped Bathin’s shoulder. He shifted to one side so I could see the scene before us.
The clearing was almost beautiful. White marble columns and arches created a grotto where streams of what I hoped was water rippled and flowed.
The jungle did not encroach on the clearing, except for delicate tendrils of vines that wrapped up the arches. Flowers that looked way too similar to red lips with human teeth, hung in silent screams from the green.
Golden fountains were scattered along gemstone pathways, and the sky, because yes, there appeared to be a sky, was surprisingly blue.
It looked like something out of a painting. It looked like a garden where gods would linger.
“Fuck,” Myra whispered behind me.
That’s when I noticed two figures sitting on thrones behind the marble columns of a Roman-style temple.
The demon on the right could only be Vychoro, the King of the Underworld. He was wide—massive—his skin a collision of wart-covered greens that drew the eye. He had three mouths, two eyes, and a nose, but those features were fluid in their position and number.
His hair was dark and long on an oval head, his body a bulk of muscles that was only vaguely human under a black toga made of fur and scales.
It was difficult to look away from him, but I did.
Because on the other throne sat the god, Mithra.
The god sprawled, the very image of a bored judge who’d been pulled away from a nap to deal with petty complaints. He hadn’t bothered to brush his hair, which was gray and stuck up at all angles from his blunt-featured face.
He had on a silk shirt, but it was misbuttoned, and the cuffs were undone. His breeches were dark and gathered at the ankles like sweat pants. He wore sandals on his feet.
He didn’t look dangerous or clever. He looked like someone who would be easy to dismiss or ignore.
That was a lie.
Myra tapped my shoulder and pointed to one side of Mithra.
I shifted so I could see between the columns.
My heart stopped.
Ryder.
He was alive, he was here, he was whole.
