“No, not necessarily.” She didn’t need to be hissying over Thronos; she needed to be plotting. “This could be part of the setup. Be wary. I’ve heard that if guests bore him, Nereus smites them down.”

As she and Thronos neared the sounds of revelry, she squared her shoulders, feeling like she was going to a court event in Castle Tornin.

Under the reign of Omort the Deathless.

Intrigues, plots, and machinations had been constantly in play. To lower one’s guard could mean a stolen power—or death.

She was ready for this, had been honed in a war zone like no other.

Outside an arched doorway, she murmured, “Our goal is to get him to transport us. Just follow my lead. Remember, nothing can get in the way of escape. Okay?”

“I understand.” He pinned his wings as much as he could, until they jutted only slightly past his broad shoulders.

“And, Thronos, this sea god considers himself a Casanova. I’m going to have to flirt, and you’ve got to roll with it.”

“Of course,” he said, even as he draped an arm over her shoulders. “Lead the way.”

They stepped into the hall to find the feast in full swing. The area was resplendent with shimmering shells and garlands of sea grass. Pearls the size of bowling balls adorned the walls and ceilings. There were more floor cutouts revealing the sea; serving nymphs emerged from them with bubble-encased platters and pitchers.

Hundreds of guests were in attendance. Their species ran the Lore gamut from oceanfolk to woodland beings—but none from the air.

In addition to the mercreatures, she saw selkies with their seal-skin coats, tree nymphs, and satyrs. Kobolds and gremlins scurried about underfoot. Lanthe even spotted a no-nosed fuath—one among an evil species of water spirits. It had webbed feet, a blond, shaggy mane down its back, and a spiked tail.

They all looked wasted.

The dining table was immense, a weighty glass surface laid over coral tubes. The chairs were made of polished driftwood. Smiling Nereids served drinks to guests. Others danced and played instruments.

One blew on a conch to signal their arrival, announcing them as “Melanthe of the Deie Sorceri, Queen of Persuasion, and Prince Thronos of Skye Hall and all Air Territories.”

“Welcome, my honored guests!” a male called from the head of the table.

Must be Nereus. He was strikingly tall. His long red hair and beard were streaked through with blond. He wore only the bottom half of a toga, displaying the brawny muscles of his oiled chest, arms, and shoulders. Gold bands encircled his beefy biceps.

His emerald-green eyes roved over her with such intensity that Thronos’s arm tightened around her.

Nereus waved them over. On the surface, he seemed in a joyous mood. Yet there was an undercurrent of something in his gaze, something that turned his handsome mien almost creepy.

She could handle creepy. Lanthe cast him a bright smile. Showtime.

FORTY-TWO

Once the god had greeted Melanthe and Thronos, all the revelers stared.

Though not as intently as Nereus himself had ogled Thronos’s mate!

Out of the corner of her mouth, she said, “Just smile and wave, boys. Smile and wave.”

As she was speaking to a single male, Thronos figured this was another cultural reference he didn’t understand.

The entire trek here, he’d worked to remain calm because he’d sensed that Melanthe was nearing her breaking point. Perhaps she had been, but no longer.

Now she looked like a knight about to enter a fray: focused, confident, yet aware of the stakes.

“Join me here,” Nereus called. At the far end of the table, he pointed to a pair of chairs just to the right of his throne.

Why would he seat them in such a place of honor?

The festivities ramped up once more, the music restarting. The nymphs’ song was strangely relaxing, but Thronos knew he needed to stay sharp.

He assessed his environs. Exits: only the doorway and floor cutouts. Adversaries: unknown. So he’d consider every single being a potential enemy—except the harmless nymphs.

Disadvantages: they were deep beneath the ocean, not exactly his preferred battleground. A week ago, he would have said this was his worst nightmare.

Now he knew that losing his mate was.

As he and Lanthe made their way down the length of the table, Thronos worked to limit his limp—in hostile situations, opponents always scouted for weaknesses. Though his arm and wing had been healed, his old injuries still plagued him.

Other guests were already seated, some Loreans he’d never seen before. Most wore skimpy togas, their heads decorated with wreaths.

Thronos counted himself lucky to be dressed in traditional Vrekener attire.

At some sections of the table, water-filled tanks had been pulled up for the comfort of mercreatures. They drank heavily from shell goblets. Though the tanks were transparent, tentacles groped or . . . probed.

That’s just not right. But Thronos showed no reaction.

Farther down the table was even more lechery. Nymphs perched across knees or astraddle males, their hands busy beneath the glass tabletop. The way one nymph was writhing over a satyr’s furry lap, Thronos figured the male had to be inside her, concealed by her sea-foam skirt.

Melanthe cast him a look from under her lashes, probably thinking he couldn’t handle the iniquity of these scenes. After Inferno, he was growing more accustomed.

As he and Melanthe passed, revelers cast amorous glances at her. How could they not? None of the females here could hold a candle to his. She was a sensual sorceress, blessed with unmatched beauty.