Page 15 of Queen to the Sunless Court (Brides of Myth #2)

Spiced Poison

Theron

The chamber was opulent and otherworldly, with high ceilings supported by columns seemingly carved from silver starlight while moonless darkness seethed in the spaces between them.

He was seated on a chair. The edges of his vision blurred, as if framed by smoke. About three paces in front of him, a white, opaque curtain streamed down, its hem frothing on the floor. The foot of a bed and its short length peeked out from behind.

As he attempted to grasp why was sitting in someone’s sleeping chamber, he noticed movement to his left.

A couple embraced in the shadows. The woman’s appearance was a mystery to him, with her back turned and her long, dark brown hair cascading down.

The man—a winged god—wrapped one hand around her waist. In his other hand, he held a delicate cup fashioned from crystalline black stone, casually raised in the air as he kissed her and guided her backward until her calves touched the foot of the bed.

He broke the kiss then. His crown, adorned with rubies shaped like poppies, ignited with tiny red flames as he tilted his head down at her, scrutinizing her from over the rim of his cup while he sipped.

He was bare, golden-haired and silver-eyed, built like an athlete.

“If you insist… but let me give you a fair warning,” he purred.

“Making love to me is addictive, and no mortal man can compare afterward… Calliste.”

Theron’s eyes flickered to the woman, a stinging, icy feeling lancing through his chest. Her curves seemed familiar, yet she was somehow insubstantial, as if woven of golden smoke. Though hard to tell from an angle, she looked like Calliste as her clean profile tilted up, veiled by tousled hair.

He wanted to call out to her, so she would turn her head, but he couldn’t make a sound or even move, as if his body was frozen.

She vanished behind the curtain, becoming a faint sound of rustling sheets. The bed creaked, and the opaque curtain rippled and sparkled.

The winged immortal studied her, the corner of his mouth curling before he took another sip from his cup. “Wider.”

No. Fury flooded him, worse for what his imagination pieced together, burning brighter at the sight of the icy possessiveness etched in every perfect plane of the god’s face. It was clear that she was only a plaything to him, a vessel for his pride.

And also, nothing.

“You belong to me.” The god rested his knee on the edge of the bed and tossed the cup aside. It chimed as it struck the floor, rolling to Theron’s feet, the golden, glittering liquid streaking across the floor. “No mortal can touch you.”

Theron willed himself to shoot from the chair and hurl himself at the man—immortal or not—but his body felt like granite.

The immortal vanished behind the curtain. A moment later, she murmured something inaudible with a breathless laugh, followed by a sharp gasp mellowing into a slow exhale, unmistakable in its rolling sweetness, filled with awe.

“Like it?” Icy satisfaction glazed the immortal’s hypnotizing voice. “I’ll make you forget everything—”

The muted sound of flesh smacking against flesh, punctuated by her ragged breaths, stoked Theron’s fury further.

“Except for my name—”

The creaking of the bed picked up, along with her trembling, encouraging exhales, each one like a punch to Theron’s gut.

“What is my name, Calliste?”

“Hypnos…” Her moans crescendoed, sharp, incredulous. “Ah—Hypnos—I—”

Far, far away, Theron heard a blasting noise, as if someone pummeled their fist on the door, snatching his attention. “Theron! Are you there?”

His name freed him—he could finally snap from the chair, full of incandescent rage, one hand gripping the curtain, his other fist ready to strike the smirking god’s face.

***

“Ah, godsdamn! Theron, stop punching me and wake up!” Lykos’ exasperated voice thundered in Theron’s head, followed by a heavy weight pinning him to his bed.

“What in the pits of Tartarus…?” Theron struggled to open one eye as he attempted to push the weight aside, but his muscles refused to respond.

“I’ll let you go if you promise to stop flailing your fists,” Lykos growled.

“Uh…” The pounding headache felt like he’d spent the night downing wine and was now paying the price. Gods, my head. “Lykos…?”

“Thank all the gods.” Lykos released his wrists and rolled off him. “What happened? Did you smoke something? It smells odd here.”

“Odd?” Only then did he notice the unfamiliar scent, out of place in his bedchamber. “What time… is it?”

“Late morning, well past the time you should be in the Assembly. Xanthos asked me to check on you, and I tell you, he’s not pleased. I’d let you stay in bed all day for all I care about him huffing about your absence, but when you didn’t answer the door…”

Theron raised his head, looking around for more unusual signs and saw the massive door to his sleeping chamber dangling from one hinge. “You broke in here ?”

Still sitting beside him in the crumpled bedding, Lykos scowled. “I knocked for ages, then started pounding. And then—well—I might have panicked.”

“Lykos, uh, you know that if anyone could break in here to murder me, that would only be you.” Theron shifted and tried to sit up, fighting the excruciating band around his head which seemed to tighten up with every word he spoke. “Damn, it hurts.”

Lykos helped him sit up, his sharp gaze scanning the white silks, the mirror, and settling on the bedside table. “So, what happened? Everything’s in place. Just this... stench.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t smoke anything, Lykos. I just...” He rubbed his face wearily. “I had a nightmare.”

Lykos scrutinized him. “Nothing unusual there, either.”

“This one was…” Theron shook his head at the memory, still raw and obscenely vivid. His hair prickled and his body tensed at just a shadow of it, so he tried his best to push it away, grateful for Lykos’ presence. “It was too much.”

His friend leaned closer, studying his face. “What was it this time?”

Approaching footsteps had them glancing at the broken door.

Xanthos stomped in, eyebrows arching at the sight of them close in the bed. “Forgive me for interrupting a tender moment—”

“It’s not what you think,” Lykos stretched with a grin.

“...but I’d appreciate it if you finally showed your face in the Assembly, Theron,” Xanthos said with an acerbic tone. “I’ve been covering for you for long enough and it's getting ridiculous. For Zeus’ sake, you need to make an appearance.”

“Gods. Fine. Let me pull myself together,” Theron stumbled out of bed and tried to rise to his feet, but the throbbing headache immediately sent him crashing to his knees.

“Oh, this —this could be me,” Lykos quipped, watching him from over the edge of the bed. “Rumor has it that’s how women crawl out of my bed. Apparently. Are your legs a bit weak, sweetheart?”

Theron rubbed his temples. “You’re so lucky I can’t think straight.”

“Because you’d scorch me with your retort?” Lykos snorted, massaging his shoulder. “Payback for punching me earlier. Just get up.”

“I’m trying.” Theron held onto the side of the bed and climbed to his feet, his headache getting worse as he met Xanthos’ disbelieving, questioning gaze.

“No,” he preempted the accusation. “I wasn’t drinking myself to death or smoking anything last night, and I certainly wasn’t having fun with that manwhore over there—”

“You’re hurting my feelings, Theron,” Lykos purred, wiggling his hips.

“…I don’t know what’s happening, Xanthos.”

“All I can tell is that you’re in no condition to appear before the Assembly. Gods.” Xanthos pinched the bridge of his nose. “And I’ve run out of creative excuses.”

“Good advisor, poor politician,” Lykos quipped from the bed.

Xanthos shot him a withering glare, and Theron braced himself for another argument he couldn’t even stop, when someone cleared their throat at the door.

“Apologies,” Panakeios muttered, carefully stepping past the ruined door. “I was leaving the palace, but thought to report to the king first.”

“Well met.” Xanthos turned to him. “The king seems to be suffering from a strange condition, but can’t explain it. Any idea what it might be?”

Theron finally rose to his feet, trying not to stagger as pain drilled into his temples.

Panakeios’ eyes swept to Lykos, still sprawled on the bed.

“No, it’s definitely not what you think,” Lykos grinned at the Head Physician’s confusion. “Nothing to do with me. He was in this state when I found him.”

Panakeios stepped forward and halted abruptly, nostrils flaring. “Pardon me, Majesty, but this smell… Where did you buy it?”

“Buy what? Do you recognize it?”

“Of course. Poppyheads. Very potent. We use them to relieve severe pain, but they have other uses.” Concern glinted in his eyes. “As your physician, I must warn you—this is highly addictive.”

“I haven’t touched anything like it. Where would I even get it?” Theron growled, then paused, sifting through the fog in his mind to recall that certain plants, especially those with unique properties, were sacred. “Does this plant have a divine patron?”

Panakeios bowed his head. “Indeed. Poppy is sacred and belongs to every healer’s greatest ally—Hypnos, the god of sleep.”

Theron tensed, the smirking face of a fair-haired immortal flashing in his mind, stirring his rage.

The god of sleep—and also a deity of the damned Underworld.

He took a deep breath, restraining himself even though he still reeled from the vision he had to endure.

Every healer’s greatest ally. She’s a healer.

“The effects of this plant should wear off soon, correct?”

“Yes,” Panakeios replied, rummaging through his bag. “I also have an energizing tonic to help with fatigue. It was very useful to keep me awake when I stayed beside your priestess at night… here. A couple of drops in plenty of water will restore you. Keep it. I don’t need it anymore.”

Theron grasped the phial, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

Panakeios shrugged. “That’s why I’m here, Majesty. Priestess Calliste has awoken.”