“Acheron?”
The creature turned toward a Greek soldier while Urian shielded his brother’s exit. He wanted to make sure nothing happened to either Paris or Davyn. Not tonight.
Yet he felt a peculiar pull toward Acheron. There was some kind of familiarity. As if he should know him. He couldn’t explain it. Like something inside him knew this man, or that he should who he was.
He’d never felt anything like it.
Still his arm throbbed. Thank the gods he had it completely covered with a leather pauldron, bracer, and glove, and his chalmys.
Suddenly, the voices in his head grew louder.
Not just the human souls he’d taken. There were more now.
Disoriented, Urian moved to leave only to find Acheron in his way. Up close, he appeared physically younger than Urian. Not by much, maybe a couple of years. And they were about the same build. Yet it annoyed him that the bastard had a couple of inches on his height.
Acheron narrowed his gaze on him. “Do I know you?”
Urian shook his head and without a word, he quickly brushed past him and left.
Acheron gasped as he felt the light touch like a physical blow to his body. More like a sledgehammer to his chest. Indeed, he could barely breathe. It was so severe that it activated his Charonte protector on his arm.
“Shh, Simi,” he breathed, stroking her with his hand to calm her so that she didn’t peel herself off his skin in front of the humans gathered in the tavern and frighten them with her sudden demonic appearance.
He wasn’t harmed. At least not physically. But he was concerned.
Heading back toward the table, he sat down across from the hardened warlord he’d come here to meet. With dark blond hair and frigid green eyes that gave the illusion they glowed, he had a scar across his collarbone where it appeared someone had once tried to cut his throat. Given the violence Thorn was capable of, Acheron was certain that person hadn’t survived their stupidity. Indeed, in this din of warriors, Thorn stood out as one not to be trifled with. He had an air of death and cruelty.
But Acheron knew better. He wasn’t cruel to anyone who didn’t have it coming. Thorn was a champion for humanity. Centuries ago, he’d taken it upon himself to police the demons who preyed upon them and send them back to their dimensions so that they couldn’t harm innocents. It was a thankless task, yet Thorn never complained.
Well … “never” was a bit of a stretch.
And while Acheron was the newly designated leader of the Dark-Hunters Artemis had created, he knew nothing of leading others.
Thorn, on the other hand, had been born to lead an army. From the minute he’d been old enough to sit on his own, his stepfather had taught him to ride. Back then, he’d assumed he would one day be heir. Little had he known, he had a much larger destiny.
One in which he wouldn’t lead that man’s empire, but rather an army of Hellchasers who fought demons and drove them back to their respective hells.
If anyone had leadership advice on how to wrangle the snarly bastards Acheron was now charged with keeping alive and intact, he couldn’t think of anyone better than Akantheus Leucious Forneus of the Brakadians, or the Death Collector as he was best known.
And he definitely looked the part. Dressed in a mad ensemble of furs and leather that was covered with an assortment of metal plates sewn on to resemble dragon scales over chain mail, he looked as if he were part man, part beast. His long, unbound hair didn’t help. Nor his beard that was neither long nor short. It merely appeared that he couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to have one or be clean-shaven. But then that was Thorn. He lived by no one’s dictates but his own.
Even his weaponry was that way. While most carried swords, his weapons of choice were a whip, a sling bow, and a long dagger, and one clawed glove that resembled the hand of a falcon.
Acheron gave him a head tilt. “Did you see that blond warrior who was just here?”
Thorn squinted toward the door where he’d exited. “What of him?”
“Was he a Daimon?”
“With blue eyes?”
He had a point, but … “What was he?”
Thorn’s brow shot north at Acheron’s question as he reached to refill his cup. “You don’t know?”
“No.” There was no missing the shocked disbelief in his tone. As an Atlantean god, it wasn’t often Acheron didn’t know everything about everyone the moment he met them. The only time he didn’t was if they impacted his future some way, or if they were a friend or family.
Yet he’d never met that person before.
