Medea swept a hot, seductive glance over his long, lush body. “A rope and a gag come in handy forlotsof things, princess,” she said suggestively.
Urian curled his lip. “Ew! Hey, brother over here and I do not approve of this entire line of conversation with my sister! Back to a G rating, folks.”
Laughing, albeit a bit nervously, Brogan started toward the platform. She’d only taken a step before a light flashed and smoke exploded in front of them—this realm seemed to like that a lot. Apparently, the entire place had once doubled as a stage show for an Ozzy tour.
The peculiar portal in front of them churned into action, spinning and turning like a rusted nickelodeon. Light shot out from the demon’s mouth and eyes, with a blinding intensity. Symbols twisted around it in a frenetic ballet that was painful to watch.
And out of that madness came more smoke and mist. As if an angry beast snorted at them with a furious hatred. Spiraling up and dancing to a jerky beat, the mist solidified into the shape of a tall hooded beast.
No, not a beast.
A man.
Urian hadn’t seen a copián in a long, long time. At least not one who looked like that. At first glance, they looked more like a wizard of some kind. Or shaman. Indeed, his flowing feathered robes and chains, along with the braided black hair and the huge, elaborate raven-skull headdress, would have lent itself to that assumption. Especially since bells chimed as he moved and he held a blood-red torch staff in his left hand. One that belched more fire and smoke as it shot arcing balls of light upward around his head.
Yet they were far more powerful and ancient.
Timeless.
As he turned to face them, Urian saw that he’d painted a thick black band over his golden eyes that made their unusual color more vibrant. He stepped down the dais with the grace of a man half his age. And when he neared them, he flexed his dark gray gloved hand that held the staff, digging the wooden claws that were affixed to his fingertips into its leather-wrapped shaft. His gaze bored into them with the wisdom of the ages, and with the sharpness of daggers. As if he were cleaving secrets from their very souls.
“Kerling,” he growled in the gruffest of tones. “What is this?”
Brogan curtsied to him. “They were brought here against their wills, copián. They don’t belong in this realm. I seek to send them on their way.”
A deep, fierce scowl lined his brow. The red light of his torch flared again and turned blue.
Confused, Medea leaned toward Falcyn. “What’s a copián?”
“Hard to explain. They’re time wardens and keepers of the portals.”
She scowled. “Why don’t we have one for the bolt-holes in Kalosis, then?”
“You do,” the copián said, telling her what Urian already knew. “Braith, Verlyn, Cam, and Rezar were the first of our kind. They set the perimeters for the worlds and designed the portal gates between them. It’s how they trapped Apollymi in her realm—by her own blood and design. It’s why her son is the only one who can free her from her realm where she was imprisoned by her own sister and brother for crimes they imagined that she never committed.”
Because Apollymi was the ancient goddess Braith. One of the very gods who’d first set the gates.
Another reason she sat at her pool and why Xyn had been put there as one of her servants and guardians.
Brogan gestured toward them. “As you can see, their presence disturbs the balance. This isn’t their world and they shouldn’t be here. We have to return them before they’re discovered by the others.”
Two lights shot out of his torch. They streaked up like the stray magick blasts had done earlier and circled around the old copián to land on each side of him. There they twisted up from the floor to create two tall, lean linen-wrapped plague doctors. With wide-brimmed cavalier hats, they stared out from their long-beaked, black linen masks from shiny ebony eyes. Soulless eyes that appeared to be bleeding around the corners. It was an eerie, macabre sight.
“What are those?” Medea asked.
Falcyn leaned down to whisper, “Zeitjägers.”
“What do they do?”
“Guard time. But mostly they steal it.”
She frowned. “How do you steal time?”
Falcyn laughed. “You ever been doing something … look up and it’s hours later and you can’t figure out where the time went ’cause it feels like you just sat down?”
She nodded.
“Zeitjägers,” he said simply. “Insidious bastards. They took that time from you and bottled it for their own means.”
