“I’m saving up my sorcery till tomorrow, so I can create a portal all the way to Pandemonia.” She’d attempted it yesterday and had accidentally opened a rift back to the belly of the beast. She’d slammed the portal door in an instant, but her room had still smelled like gastric acid.

Surely if Lanthe rested her threshold muscle, she could reach that demon plane. “I think he’ll be there.”

“How? Does he have a portal . . . Ah! You think he can trace! That’s why you’re so confident he lives.”

Lanthe shrugged. Nïx had mentioned it in faux Feveris: You’d be able to trace—big deal. Thinking back, Lanthe realized the Valkyrie might have been saying that in earnest.

Tracing was a big deal. It could save a demon’s life.

Even if Nïx had said nothing, Lanthe would believe. “Sabine, you’d have to know Thronos like I do—he always beats the odds. He wasn’t supposed to survive his fall as a boy. He did. He wasn’t supposed to fly again. He does. He was never supposed to catch me or win my heart. How could I ever bet against him?”

“So why Pandemonia?”

“I think his subconscious will take him back there. Or his demonic blood will, or vestiges of our history. Pandemonia is where Thronos and I made a fresh start.” Melanthe, let’s begin with a kiss. “There’s a glade we rested in, where we had our first real connection.” Or reconnection.

“Then Rydstrom and I will accompany you,” Sabine said. “I’m very interested in that realm’s dragons. We have an extraordinary female here who needs her own stable of males; she’s basically a basilisk rock star—”

“I’m going alone. If Thronos sees two Sorceri and a rage demon, it’ll put him on guard. And even with no memory of me, he might remember you as Morgana’s henchwoman.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Pandemonia’s really not that bad once you know the zones. Some parts were even hauntingly beautiful. The dragons can be a problem, but I’ll figure it out.” Lanthe didn’t expect to arrive there on the same day he did. Which was why she’d packed a bag—and a tent.

She wasn’t leaving hell without her man. Melanthe, of the Deie Sorceri—late of the lavish Castle Tornin—was going to . . . camp out.

“Say he lives, Lanthe. Say he can trace. Then say he goes to Pandemonia. If you can somehow find him, how will you handle him? He might be so enraged at Sorceri that he’ll kill you first and ask questions later.”

“He would never hurt me.”

“You won’t be able to undo Morgana’s curse with a wave of your hand. You’ll have to be fully empowered. She amped up the voltage of your sorcery to astronomical levels.”

“I’ll figure it out.” Lanthe’s persuasion had been strengthening once more, but would it be enough?

“Are you sure you should restore his memory?” At Lanthe’s glare, Sabine said, “Based on what you told me, he had some issues with how you’ve lived your life. Why not let him be blissfully ignorant? You two could meet and date, as if it’s the first time.”

“He changed; those issues are resolved. And even if I had no problem lying to him—which I do—I have to let him know that we were together.”

“Why?”

“So he doesn’t fall over in shock when I have a halfling in a few months.” The witch Mariketa had been the one to sense it, telling her: “You do know you’re totes preggo, right?”

Lanthe’s biological clock had cried, That’s right, bitches, remember my name!

Her first reaction had been a muttered “Fuck,” à la Thronos. But with each passing hour, she’d had time to grow accustomed to the idea. She was now officially elated—or she would be.

As soon as she located her kid’s father.

“Amusing, sister.” When Sabine saw that she wasn’t joking, she gasped, “Mother of gold.”

FIFTY-SIX

He must’ve damaged his head in the fall. He’s . . . different.”

“His wings were wasted by flame.”

“So how did the king come to be on that mountain?”

As Thronos completed his nightly patrol of the outpost, he heard his people’s whispers, had been hearing them for a week.

Some believed he’d traced to the mountain, as a demon might. Some believed he’d been ensorcelled with a protection spell—though Thronos had no idea what would make them think that.

All of his subjects were wary about their king and their future, and he couldn’t blame them—he wasn’t confident in either of those things himself.

My mind is not well. . . .

He descended through a profuse bank of fog, splaying his wings. Since they’d regenerated, flying had become excruciating once more, such a change from the inexplicable reprieve he’d enjoyed.

Gritting his teeth, he dropped to the landing of his elevated cabin, one of many in their outpost. Trees housed thousands more.

Jasen was already there awaiting him. Each night the two of them met to discuss the day’s events. The male appeared as exhausted as he felt.

Inside, Thronos took his place at his rough-hewn desk. “Any new developments today?”

“None.” Jasen sat on a simple wooden bench. “The people remain unsettled. They feel like we’re living on borrowed time.”

Thronos gazed out his sole window into the night; as usual he could see little past the blanket of mist that enveloped this forest.