Chapter Five

Pytheios stood in the doorway to the recently abandoned room. One built for a specific purpose.

Roughly carved from a natural cavern, it contained only a rock slab the height of a table and size of a long, single bed. Like a pedestal for a vampire’s coffin, or a platform for ritual sacrifice. The latter was closer to the truth. Against one wall dangled chains and shackles of varying sizes, all made from dragon steel.

This place had been his secret in a never-used part of his mountain. Everest, with its massive size in combination with the many millennia that dragon shifters had made their homes within its caverned walls, was now a twisting maze of tunnels, rooms, and chambers. No one, not even Pytheios, knew all of it. Which was why it had been easy to find a place for Rhiamon to wield her powerful magic.

Here they’d spent countless days together as she’d siphoned the energy, the life force, from supernatural creatures into Pytheios and herself, a necessary evil in order to prolong their own lives, granting them more time to find immortality.

They’d been close. He’d tasted that power for the briefest moment.

Now, he glared at the spot where that bitch of a phoenix, Skylar Amon, had attacked. Even still the room reeked of magic, which had a remarkably similar scent to ozone, sweat, and smoke. The smoke would be from the phoenix and the hellhound Rhiamon had been draining. Pytheios, locked in the spell and weakened, hadn’t gotten the chance to light his own fire.

“My king.” The voice of one of his guard reached him telepathically. Likely one flying patrol tonight.

Needing to conserve energy, Pytheios shifted the smallest part of himself he could, a single finger turning scaled with a claw at the end. “Yes?”

“King Volos of the White Clan is on approach. However, we were not informed of his arrival. He is asking permission to speak with you.”

Satisfaction settled in Pytheios’s gut. He wasn’t surprised that Volos had come, merely at how long it had taken him to get here given the incentive. “Let him in. Tell Jakkobah to greet our guest. I will join them when I can.”

“At once, sir.”

The telepathic connection shut off, but Pytheios did not leave to meet Volos as he arrived. The white king could wait.

Pytheios had a more immediate problem. If he didn’t get another boost of energy soon, he wouldn’t make it through the next two weeks, let alone through the war. A big influx, too. Smaller creatures like kitsune would no longer suffice. In his state, a hellhound might not even be enough. Not that they held one captive to suck dry anyway. The dogs were damn difficult to capture.

The question was, did he risk Rhiamon’s currently unsteady grasp on reality to ask this favor? If he did, what creature would they siphon and where?

Which was why he was here, staring at an empty room.

Looking at the space now, no one could detect the horror the phoenix had wrought in this small, unassuming space. Skylar had murdered his witch and sent him far away when he was so low on energy it had taken interacting with pathetic humans to get in touch with his people and slowly find his way home. All while that Amon cunt had escaped under the noses of his people.

Layers of humiliation and fury lashing at his insides he wasn’t soon to forget.

That one act, and the results, were exactly why he needed to eradicate the world of their kind.

No dragon—the most powerful and ancient of all shifters—should be dependent upon another creature. Their kind should not rely on outside influences to determine their leaders or provide supernatural bullshit luck. Dragons were glorious and perfect without intervention.

But his people couldn’t see past their own mortality. He’d been blind himself once, only seeing the need to mate a phoenix to secure his claim to the throne of the Red Clan and the title of High King. Belief in his destiny had centered his world.

It had taken Serefina choosing another, choosing Zilant Amon as a mate, for Pytheios to see the true danger of submitting to the supposed power of the firebird lore.

Now he had four to contend with, dammit. Her daughters.

No matter. If he could take their powers—all four of the sisters—and kill them afterward, then he would be everything his people needed. High King forever, able to lead all dragon shifters into a new and glorious era.

One that would last forever.

First, he had to capture each of those bitches. All four of them, though he only knew the whereabouts of three. That had been his earlier mistake, going after one at a time. The mated ones posed a greater complication. Little in this world was more dangerous than a male dragon protecting his mate. The best plan would be to take all four at once and drain them quickly.

Hopefully the trap he’d laid, and the bait he’d set out, would lure them to him. Could Rhiamon keep him alive that long?

He’d brought her back from beyond the grave, but altered—more powerful, angrier, and uncontrolled. Bitter that he’d killed their useless son, sacrificing Merikh to bring her back, using a dark magic that required a life for a life.

Pytheios didn’t dare bring his witch to this room. She wasn’t stable. Any child could see that just looking at her. Seeing the scene of her death might tip her mind into the void.

With careful movements, every action an effort in the state of decay he’d reached, Pytheios locked the door and made his way to the supersonic elevator he’d had installed in the last century, then down to the lower levels. Jakkobah would have known to escort Volos—and Volos alone—to his private study. Pytheios’s own private chambers were off-limits.

Avoiding the halls most traveled, Pytheios didn’t bother to knock or have either of the guards announce him. Though he nodded at one to open the door for him.

Inside only Jakkobah and Volos waited.

For a man who dressed in custom-made suits, styled simple and straight with a standing collar but with intricately detailed embroidery and luxurious materials, Jakkobah had chosen to decorate his spaces in a more minimalist fashion with clean lines and sparse furniture.

Volos rose from a straight-backed wooden chair.

Tall and hefty-shouldered in human form, more akin to gold dragon shifters despite being white, Volos had broad features and wide-set eyes. Swarthy skin appeared even darker against his shock of white hair, worn short and slicked back, and his white-blue eyes practically glowed. The King of the White Clan had remained unmated all these years. Pytheios had seen to that. Both Volos and Gorgon—a way to keep kings in line. Age was starting to show its slow march across Volos’s face.

The time had come for a younger king for the White Clan. Placing Brock Hagan there, a gold dragon, would cause ripples, but he had little concern that the White Clan would obey. Brock was of royal blood—he should have been the gold king if it hadn’t been for Brand Astarot and his damn phoenix. The man hid a cruel streak that Pytheios had every intention of leveraging to his own purposes. Once they defeated the rebel kings, maybe he’d give him both the Gold and White Clans as a reward.

He’d sent Brock on a mission. If he came back from that unharmed, then they’d take the first step with the White Clan.

Volos bowed, breaking into Pytheios’s thoughts. “High King.”

Keeping his hands steepled before him, Pytheios did not offer to shake. Physical contact hurt too much in his current state. “My old friend. What brings you here?”

He knew. He wanted to hear Volos say it.

“Tisiphone.”

Allowing a small smile to stretch his lips uncomfortably, Pytheios nodded. “Of course. A miraculous find, isn’t she?”

“Is she?” Volos asked, pale eyes narrowed with a blatant display of suspicion. “A find, I mean?”

Pytheios gazed back through his one still-good eye, the other giving him only a milky image behind cataracts. “You question me?”

To give him credit for still possessing some brains, Volos paled slightly, but he didn’t back down. Rare for the white king, the puppet Pytheios had been sure to put on the throne in place of Zilant Amon after he’d killed him. Volos had been so grateful that not once in five centuries had he questioned Pytheios like this.

Behind Volos, Jakkobah raised his eyebrows in what appeared to be mild surprise, but that was quite a statement from the man people nicknamed the Stoat—thanks to both his weasel-like appearance and other attributes, including being known for his lack of emotional responses.

Pytheios couldn’t have this. He already had three traitor kings to deal with. Until he solidified his position of power by draining those phoenixes dry, he couldn’t have the two remaining allied kings turning on him like rabid dogs.

How fortuitous that he’d already planned for this eventuality.

“Is the woman claiming to be a phoenix my niece?” Volos questioned in a voice with a slight tremble.

“Yes.”

Volos took a step back, shock twisting his expression.

“You expected me to lie to you?” Pytheios queried in a deceptively mild voice.

Volos shook his head, gaze skating around the room as if searching for a new reality to find purchase on.

You won’t find it. Pytheios settled inwardly. Ready to get on with what happened next. I am the solid foundation. Fix your gaze on me.

The white king swallowed. “If she is my niece, then her name isn’t Hanyu, and how can she be a phoenix?”

A question, rather than an accusation. Poor Volos. The man never had developed a spine. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Pytheios waved at Jakkobah who, hands clasped behind his back, strode from the room.

“Shall we sit as we wait?” Pytheios lowered himself into the cushioned, wing-backed chair set by the fireplace. Though dragons didn’t need much extra heat, this was Everest, and March was still damn cold. His old bones ached with the chill that the low ebb of his own fire couldn’t hold at bay.

“I’ll stand, if I may.” Volos faced the exit Jakkobah had departed through.

Pytheios waved a careless hand. Standing or sitting wouldn’t change who walked through that door, or who held the power in this situation.

Ten minutes later—Volos visibly tenser with each passing second, his overwide shoulders practically twitching from the strain—Jakkobah entered with two women, not one.

Rhiamon, paler than she used to be, her white curls wilder, and her eyes more darkly shadowed, as though the magic lurked under the surface, no longer under her full control. Before, when she used her powers, her eyes would turn solid black with silver pupils and the black would appear to leech into the skin surrounding, like poison in her veins. Now it constantly marred her pale skin. Or perhaps death had filled her with such power, she could no longer disguise it behind human eyes.

Volos’s eyes widened, and Pytheios swore he picked up the pungent scent of fear in the air as Rhiamon entered, but immediately the white king dismissed her as the second woman appeared.

“Gods above.” The words jerked from Volos. “It is you. Though you look…different.”

Doubt again. The time had definitely come to find a new king for the White Clan.

“Uncle.” Tisiphone crossed the room to kiss her relative on the cheek.

For his part, Volos searched her face with a disbelieving gaze, like maybe if he stared long enough the woman would change to someone else. No doubt the man had been hoping for someone else. “What have you done to yourself? I hardly recognize you.”

Tall and slender, like most white dragon shifters, Tisiphone glided across to where Pytheios sat. She didn’t dare touch him, but she slid her arm across the back of his chair in a clear show of solidarity. “I have found a way to better myself, Uncle.”

“Better yourself?” Volos was sounding shell-shocked now. He dropped into the wood chair he’d occupied earlier.

Tisiphone gave her uncle a superior smirk. “As a female-born dragon shifter, you know my only prospect was to mate for political convenience and resign myself to never providing my mate with children. Possibly have to watch him use a human surrogate to bear us sons. Other options were never a consideration. Until now.” She curled her lip in a sneer. “Now you want to take away the only choice that makes sense?”

“Choice?” Volos’s deep-set eyes practically disappeared as his thick brows lowered. “When it’s all lies?”

“It’s not lies. Pytheios’s witch has made me into something new. Something…better.” Satisfaction coated each word.

“Better?” Volos’s repetition was growing old quickly.

“A phoenix,” Tisiphone breathed, and glanced down at her arms as though the glowing sign might appear at her will.

Volos spared a glance at Rhiamon, appeared to contain a shudder, then moved his gaze to Pytheios. “A phoenix cannot be made.”

Tisiphone slid a questioning gaze to Pytheios, who waved for her to go ahead with her sharing. “We won’t need the real phoenixes after Pytheios has drained them of their powers.”

As they had discussed, Tisiphone did not mention his plan to mate her, making her a permanent fixture as “the phoenix” at his side as far as the rest of the dragon shifter world was concerned. With no other phoenix to contradict his claim, because he’d kill them, and holding all that power himself, no one would be the wiser.

The plan was perfect.

But Rhiamon couldn’t know that piece on the board, or she might not act out her part for him if she believed he’d mate another. Not after the promises he’d made. Promises he’d released himself from the instant she’d died.

“What do you get for this deception?” Volos asked, voice thready.

“The High King has promised his witch can make me fertile when we succeed in shutting down this rebellion. When she does, I shall give my mate the offspring he deserves.”

In the corner of the room where she’d slowly moved, Rhiamon’s shoulders twitched. He’d have to talk to Tisiphone about calling her “his witch.” They needed Rhiamon to play nice for now.

Volos dropped his gaze. “That’s…a generous offer.” He was quiet a long beat, then pulled back his shoulders. “I should have trusted that you had a master plan, my king.”

Yes. But that wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

He bowed his head in acceptance of the apology, the movement slow mostly because of the effort to lift it again.

“I wish you had come to me sooner,” Volos said next. Pandering evident in the sort of flailing urgency in his voice. “I would have offered my niece to you without hesitation.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Volos approached Pytheios and bowed. “I will return to my mountain and take this secret to my grave. I shall be proud to know my kin is part of your plan.”

“I don’t think so.”

Volos paused midbow and lifted his gaze. “Pardon?”

Pytheios shifted his gaze to Rhiamon, who had already been chanting quietly in her corner. Even reborn, she knew his wishes without a word. Now she lifted her gaze—silver irises floating eerily in a sea of black death.

Satisfaction tore through his veins.

Before her demise, it took almost an hour for her to work up to the moment she could pull a soul from a body, and another hour of concentrated, exhaustive effort to place that soul into Pytheios. That effort had been why they’d needed their special, private room for the act. That and the screaming.

But she was already there, ready to pull a soul from a body. Within minutes. It appeared death had only made her stronger.

As soon as she fixed her gaze on Volos, the white king froze as still as the dead in their tombs. Men he would soon join. The only movement in his body came from the pupils of his eyes, which dilated, consuming the white irises. Slowly, Rhiamon crossed the room, lips moving as soundless words tumbled out, her gaze focused entirely on her prey. When she reached his side, she laid a hand on his shoulder. With tiny jerks, like watching a stop-motion film, Volos straightened from his bow and faced her.

Rhiamon put her lips to his, and the white king’s mouth opened wide in a silent scream. A shadow of his face appeared to lift away from his body, a spectral form drawing into her mouth, as she pulled his ghost, his soul, from his corporeal form into her own. The process took less than a minute. Then Volos’s eyes clouded over, his skin turning a deathly gray, before he collapsed to the floor without so much as a twitch of life left within him.

Rhiamon turned to Pytheios, then paused, glancing over his shoulder at Tisiphone, her eyes narrowing.

“Rhiamon,” Pytheios rumbled, wanting her focus on him.

She continued to home in on the false phoenix with venom in her gaze.

“My king,” Tisiphone whimpered behind him. He ignored her.

“Rhiamon,” Pytheios growled now, letting cold demand freeze the word.

He needed this, needed the power, the added time. A soul as old as Volos’s wouldn’t help for long, but a dragon shifter, no matter the age, especially one as powerful as a king, would tide him over. Hopefully long enough.

Rhiamon’s gaze snapped to him, and Pytheios had to contend with the sudden, unusual sensation of fear clutching at his heart, its fingers icy and grasping. He wasn’t sure of her intent until she leaned over him in his chair, placing her weight on her hands on the arms, then paused. “For you…my love.”

She placed her lips to his, then released the essence she held inside her, filling him with it.