GREECE

Nineteen years ago

Dante roared down the long driveway, the growl of the motorcycle engine suiting the melody of anger and grief battling for his heart.

Papa was dead. Had been gone for days and no one had told him. Dante had forever missed his chance to say goodbye. To make things right.

Deep inside his chest, the ache for revenge clawed. He knew who had made the decision to rob him of the opportunity to connect, one last time, with the man whose blood he bore.

His brother. Who hated him.

He only knew now because Papa’s lawyer had called him to the reading of the will. It meant, he guessed, that Papa hadn’t forgotten him after all.

But the only thing he truly wanted, to be recognized as his father’s son, he would never have. To be part of his father’s daily life, to share the small moments with him, the normal ones.

He’d never be tucked in bed at night and know his father and his mother were in the next room, guardians of his sleep. Or relish the simple pleasure of a father’s visit to his school, of walking down the street, small hand in his father’s larger one.

Or, now that he was a man of nineteen, to take his place at his father’s side. To join his father’s company, Prince Laboratories, and make him proud.

All those pleasures his brother had enjoyed all his life. Dante would never experience them, never have the slightest passing acquaintance with that joy, forever out of his reach.

As he parked the bike outside his father’s mansion, he stilled the urge to turn around and ride away, to seek comfort in the arms of his Caterina, so sweet and kind. To sit on the porch and comfort Mama, who’d been inconsolable at the news.

A mere glance at the sturdy stone exterior pierced his heart with grief. His father would not be waiting inside. Their goodbye, when he’d been given the amulet, had been the last words they would ever exchange.

Instead, his brother, his enemy, would be waiting.

He climbed the stairs with reluctance. Inside he would find the proof of what he wanted so badly to deny. His father would not come to visit again, would not stroke his hair or laugh with pride. Never speak to him again of the secrets of their shared blood, the blood of the Light Walkers, healers and warriors who fought battles to save lives. He had these dreams he had expected Papa to explain.

But Papa had never visited. Never spoken to him again. The child within rose up to cry out, to beg for another chance. He should have been able to find a way to change all this.

The butler opened the study door, and he reluctantly strode past. That boy was long gone, as dead as the father.

From a chair in front of the desk, Markos rose. Triumph and malice glowed from his eyes. His brother, too, had matured. He was a man now, his frame filled out. His victory complete.

Dante tore his gaze away, taking in the sight of the stranger sitting behind his father’s desk. He nodded a curt greeting and took his own seat at his brother’s side.

The older man cleared his throat, his eyes dark and assessing. “Shall we proceed?”

Cut and dried, then. It would be better that way. He would grieve in his own manner. In his own time.

With a sideways glance he saw the muscle jumping in his brother’s jaw, the fingers of one hand gripping the arm of the chair until the knuckles stood out like bleached bones.

All Dante could think of was the last time he’d been in this room, when his father had talked of rescuing this brother, of making him whole. Though he’d doubted such could be accomplished, Dante had allowed himself to hope Papa would succeed, would give them another chance to be true brothers as he had always craved.

So intent was he on recapturing the beloved sound of his father’s voice that he didn’t register the lawyer’s words until his brother had leapt to his feet, chair crashing to the floor.

“He cannot do that! I am his son, his heir. He cannot let the bastard—”

Fists clenched, Markos whirled, his face purple with rage. “If you think for a moment that you’ll ever take the helm of Prince, you’re a fool. I’ll see you dead first.” His fist plowed into Dante’s belly.

Air exploded from Dante’s chest. He hit the floor with a thud. His brother was on him before he could rise. Itching for long-overdue revenge, he welcomed the fight. They clashed with fists and teeth and kicks until four burly men pulled them apart.

Chests heaving, they glared and struggled to rejoin battle. Dante still didn’t understand what had happened, but he strained against his captors, relishing the chance to wade in with fists doubled and smash his brother into pulp.

“Stop!” the lawyer ordered. He cast a nervous glance at Markos as if waiting for the explosion to ignite again.

Dante had to discover what he’d missed. “Say it again.”

But the lawyer never got the chance. His brother spoke first. “It seems that our father decided to play a little practical joke.” His eyes were bright and hard with menace.

“What do you mean?”

The lawyer cleared his throat. “He left the house and the bulk of his estate to his legal son, though he left you a small bequest.” He cast another glance at Markos, whose frame was as rigid as his fists. “But the ownership of Prince Laboratories is not to be decided yet. You and your…brother are both to take positions there, to learn the business from the ground up. Each of you has the opportunity to wind up at the helm, and the matter will not be decided until five years have passed.”

Dante frowned, trying to absorb it all. “I have a chance?”

“Don’t get your hopes up. It will never happen. No one knows you there. They will be loyal to me,” his brother said. Then he turned to the lawyer. “What of the amulet?”

Instinctively Dante covered the amulet that never left his throat.

His brother’s gaze narrowed. Quicker than a cat, he leaped, tearing open Dante’s shirt. He hissed, and his hand darted toward the necklace, poised to rip it from his neck.

A murky ripple…the stench of corrupted flesh…

His brother would use this for evil. Papa had failed.

All those years alone…for what?

Markos didn’t have the advantage of surprise this time. Dante was now as tall as Markos and very near the same breadth, but he had not led his brother’s pampered life. He grabbed Markos’s wrist and squeezed until drops of sweat broke out on his brother’s forehead.

“It is mine. You cannot have it.”

“You are nothing,” his brother spat. “You have no power. I will crush you.”

“Enough!” roared the lawyer.

At his nod, the servants separated the two again. Markos held fast to the amulet until Dante feared the thong would break. He tightened his fingers, using a special pressure to break Markos’s grasp.

His brother fell back with a roar of pain. “Damn you, you will pay for this. The Eye of the Magos will be mine—”

“It will not,” the lawyer shouted over him. “Your father’s will states that all gifts before death will remain the property of the recipient.”

Dante relaxed only slightly. He could see the hatred flashing in his brother’s eyes and knew this would not be the end of it.

“The hour is late,” the lawyer said. “There is a bed made up for you in the east wing,” he said to Dante.

“I do not wish to stay.”

“But you must. There are other papers that will arrive in the morning related to the company, along with executives who will answer your questions and ready you to begin. If you wish to succeed your father, you will remain. Before you go, however, your father left something else for both of you.” He produced two small carved wooden boxes and hand one to each of them.

Dante opened his, and inside was a heavy silver ring with an intricate design, a dolphin surrounded by spirals, one of the symbols of Thera, ancient name of Papa’s home island of Santorini. A glance to his right told him his brother had received one, as well, but the design featured a bull’s head in the center, another of the traditional symbols.

“You are brothers. Your father wished for you to remember the bond, to honor your shared blood.” His tone made it clear that their father would be extremely disappointed that even in shared grief, they could not put aside their enmity.

Dante closed his eyes. There was nothing he wanted less than to pass a night under the same roof as his brother. He wanted silence and space to grieve, but he forced patience, reminding himself that the tests were only beginning. It would require every ounce of brains and guile and courage he possessed to secure the place he had always wanted to occupy—true heir to his father.

“Very well.” He slipped on his ring and lifted one eyebrow in challenge to Markos. “I will stay—and I will succeed. Count on it.” He shook off the men who had restrained him and walked with as much dignity as he could muster through the halls of his father’s house.

In the night, he jolted awake not to music but to otherworldly screams. Strong bodies held his arms and legs bound.

He fought, but it was no use. Even with his eyes blinded, Dante felt it missing before he had climbed fully out of sleep, a loss as piercing as if he were minus a limb. Praying to be wrong, he touched his throat, but only neatly-sliced ends remained of the leather thong that had held the amulet in place.

At dawn the servants came to free him. Dante tore through the house like a madman, the screams in his head piercing.

His brother was gone without a word. He would return, no doubt, but he would never admit to the theft of what others considered only a piece of jewelry. Papa had long stressed that the true power of the amulet was never to be revealed to one outside the blood.

What would Markos do with it? He wouldn’t know how to care for it, he didn’t have the knowledge to guard it, to use it for good, even if Markos cared one whit about goodness and peace. But what would happen to it in Markos’s hands?

Even as he grieved, the younger man vowed never to stop seeking, though dread shuddered down his spine. Would he ever see the amulet again? Oh, Papa, I am so sorry.

Only in darkness does the Eye lose the True Path.