Sooner than he hoped, Riordan heard the sound of multiple vehicles coming up the little two-rut track that led to Tom’s cabin. Tom had taken Duke out onto the porch to wait, leaving Billy and Riordan in uncomfortable and enforced silence in the cabin, both of them gagged by their individual restraints. Billy’s bindings might be magical while Riordan’s were physical, but that just meant that they were tighter, clawing along under his skin. The man’s presence grounded Riordan in his task. People were counting on him. He felt it in the way Billy stood nearby, bending the air with his solidity, and with the throb of Riordan’s pack bond in his chest.

 

His heart wasn’t beating for himself alone. His life wasn’t his to give away. It was time to fight.

 

The first part of this particular fray wouldn’t be physical. It would be mental and spiritual. Riordan had no doubt he was about to get exposed to one heavy dose of crazy. The last time they’d met, Phenalope had decided that Riordan was some sort of gift from the Goddess, just for her, as a way to reconcile the way he’d been able to disrupt her plans and his own personal power. He’d seen glimpses of both a rational and charismatic charmer and of an insane idealistic zealot drunk on power. Both sides had wanted to possess him, to make him submit to soothe the feelings of helplessness caused by his actions.

 

Phenalope wanted control. Riordan had stolen her ritual from her. Therefore, she had to control him to restore balance.

 

Only, she was deep in the insanity of a death mage and Riordan had no idea what form that need to control would take in regards to him. Riordan didn’t think Phenalope had given up on the killing tree ritual already in progress, no matter her threat to start from scratch with the mass suicide of her own cult. Whatever else she might be able to use him for wouldn’t weigh up against enough magic to catapult her to demigod status.

 

Riordan had no idea how Phenalope thought she was going to be able to handle that much power, but the megalomaniacal tendencies of death mages probably accounted for her overconfidence. Or perhaps she had some rational reason to believe it would work. Riordan had never craved personal power like that. He’d only wanted to be strong enough to help and protect others, to change his personal corner of the world for the better. She wanted enough power to bend her corner of the world to her will entirely.

 

With that thought on his brain, Riordan turned his attention back towards the new arrivals. Slamming doors and footsteps on grass heralded the approach of several people towards the cabin. Estimating based on the sounds, there were four who approached the porch and some unknown number of others who lingered in or near the vehicles.

 

“Welcome, Boss,” Tom called out, “He’s inside.”

 

“Show respect for our Prophet, servitor,” a melodic and soft voice chided. Somehow she pitched her words to be both scolding and a kind reminder. “She works hard and has sacrificed much for our glory and the glory of the Goddess.”

 

Tom snorted derisively, but his tone was much more polite when he spoke next. “Of course. If you would follow me, honored Prophet.”

 

“Now, now, there’s no need for all that, you two. We’re all friends here.” Ah, that was a voice Riordan recognized. Phenalope might not be ranting and raving like the madwoman she was at the moment, but she’d left something of an impression in their brief meeting before. She continued, “I know that formalities matter, Gloria, but as the spiritual heart and guide for these children of the Goddess, it is my duty to make time for them as well.”

 

There was a shift in her voice, both in angle and in tone. She’d gone from being all magnanimous saint to the voice of a nagging mother, wanting to know about her children’s lives. “How have you been, Tom? Are you and Duke fully recovered from your injuries? I’m surprised Darren isn’t here, tending to you.”

 

“He’s on his way home now. I had him out running some errands given everyone else was so busy today with whatever that was going on up north,” Tom explained, “Otherwise, he’d be here tending to my every need, I’m sure. I’m recovered, but that’s a man who really likes serving others in every way so I let him spoil me if he wants.”

 

“Ah yes,” Phenalope said, her smile audible in how it shifted her voice, “He’s come a long way from the mess of a man we’d taken in. He gave up so much of his anger when he accepted that his alpha male facade was just that, a fake visage he used to hide his true self. Just as you found happiness in balancing the wrongs done to you and others in our community. I’m glad you two are still working together well. The service you provide by guarding this holy site for me is invaluable and I appreciate it.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, Prophet,” Tom said, his voice swelling with pride from the praise. Riordan could just imagine him standing straighter, his shoulders back and chest puffed out, even as the old hunter’s voice took on that hint of worship. 

 

How much of that came from manipulation or from having power for revenge or from compulsion magic, Riordan had no idea. Tom was definitely fucked though. Given how easily Tom had resorted to violence against Riordan and how much he craved revenge and power, Riordan could only imagine that the hunter’s days were numbered. His life would last only as long as his usefulness as a guard and property owner outweighed the stain of his existence. Tom might imagine he was one of the chosen ones in Phenalope’s twisted little paradise, but Riordan could see the cracks from his perspective.

 

Everything was fake and rotten here.

 

“The Goddess bless you, Tom,” Phenalope said, slipping back into her saint voice as if she had the right to pass out divine attention for real. “May the Goddess in all her aspects fortify you for tonight’s work.”

 

She continued in what Riordan thought was Latin and knew was a spell. Her casting still had that rote memorization quality that stilted its flow of energy, though its ragged edges were worn smooth with practice. He wondered what that “blessing” actually consisted of.

 

Tom thanked her when she finished her spell, sounding genuine. Riordan couldn’t help but laugh. The gag distorted the sound, but it clearly was enough to draw attention his way because the door opened a second later and he heard Phenalope inhale sharply.

 

“Oh my,” she breathed. “That’s a beautiful sight. If ever there was a man meant to be bound and kneeling, it would be you. All that magical and muscular power bending before me is truly a gift from the Goddess.”

 

She turned away again, talking back out the door to the people gathered on the porch. “Gloria, darling, will you and the Crones go over to the sacred tree and begin preparations for tonight’s ceremony? I trust you to manage all the elements with the correct precision and importance, especially since I intend for all the true Daughters to bear witness to my grand ascension.”

 

“Of course, my Prophet,” the soft-voiced Gloria replied, seemingly sincere in her reverence. 

 

Riordan was reminded that Gloria was, as far as their investigation had uncovered, the cult’s head of logistics and ceremony and the one holding everything together as Phenalope became increasingly erratic. He wouldn’t have guessed it based off of her voice or seeming subservience, but it also made sense. She catered to Phenalope’s madness, controlling her “prophet” with sweet words and intelligent suggestions. And probably a lot of things never made it as far as Phenalope before the decision was made.

 

Then Gloria continued and Riordan hung on every word as she said, “May I borrow the holy text for this duty? I wish to ensure everything goes according to the wishes of the Goddess and would not wish to miss the proper placement of anything in this holiest of ceremonies.”

 

They had a book of spells and rituals. However nicely Gloria was dressing it up, she wanted to borrow their grimoire to double-check the killing tree ritual. Or whatever other modified ritual they were working off of here. Riordan would have happily killed someone himself to know how this group had gotten that text.

 

A long pause followed Gloria’s request before Phenalope finally replied, each word filled with reluctance and displeasure masked under a thin veneer of her saintly persona, “Of course, Gloria. I know that you only wish that everything is perfect for me and will return the text to my rightful ownership as soon as you can.”

 

“Yes, Prophet,” Gloria agreed, her voice just as softly reverential as before, not responding one whit to the threat underlining Phenalope’s words.

 

Riordan wished he could see. He wasn’t as skilled at sensing and interpreting magic without relying on the crutch of sight, but as Riordan stretched his senses towards the women standing near the open cabin door, he felt a pit of oily darkness and another smear near it like a shadow of a shadow. He was pretty sure what he was sensing meant that Gloria was another death mage, but one who had barely used the power.

 

No, rather than get corrupted herself, Gloria had let her partner do all the big spells and watched her go insane. That was either heartless calculation or Phenalope had cut both Gloria and Helena off from access to as much power in her greed, sparing them the worst by accident or design.

 

Footsteps turned and left the porch, softening on the grass as Gloria called out to some of the people in the vehicles, starting to arrange the macabre show that Phenalope desired. Riordan didn’t get to focus on that as Phenalope moved again, entering the cabin after exchanging a few words with Tom telling him to keep everyone else away from the cabin for now. Another set of footsteps followed behind her. He hadn’t heard them speak, but they stayed positioned a few steps behind and to the right of Phenalope, walked with easy confidence, and wore practical rubber-soled shoes. Riordan pegged them as either a bodyguard or an assistant or both in one.

 

She came close to him before crouching down in front of him. Riordan couldn’t see her expression and resolutely kept his own reactions blank, though he turned his head to track her as if he could see her. She smelled of sandalwood incense, rose perfume, blood, and sex. Her companion mostly smelled like soap and a thin layer of sweat and incense. 

 

In the quiet, he heard her move and didn’t jump when she caressed the line of his jaw. Riordan did growl at the contact. The sound loud and feral, resonating deep in his throat and chest despite the gag. He bared his teeth and bit down hard on the fabric in his mouth even as he knocked her hand away with a jerk of his head.

 

Phenalope chuckled, amused and breathy again. “You really are a wild creature. So vibrant and beautiful. I can just feel the life pulsing in your veins. I’ve never met anyone who felt this… rich with magic and life. It’s deep in a way I cannot express.”

 

Riordan wasn’t interested in her backhand compliments. He was pretty sure that she was trying to sort out what the different magical affinities felt like and the combination of life plus spirit for the shifter affinity and his new pure spirit affinity had to feel quite strange to her. Obviously she’d met other shifters now. If nothing else, Billy was standing right there. However, Riordan doubted she’d met a shaman before. And that was not even mentioning any of the ritual bullshit that might change how she perceived him spiritually and magically through that distorted connection. He stood as a gateway to the souls of the dead men she had been draining. That had to feel bizarre if she could sense it at all.

 

“What’s your name, my wild one?” she asked, voice heavy with purpose.