“Somewhat insane?”

Carwyn shrugged. “Ask Tenzin. I’ve heard rumors that she once remained motionless for a thousand years.”

“I don’t think I’d classify Tenzin as sane,” Makeda said. “At least not from what I’ve seen so far.”

“Smart girl.”

She stepped closer, her eyes locked on the statue-like vampires. “Who are they?”

“Jason commands the sky,” Carwyn said. A pale, nearly white-skinned man with a fall of gold curls stared into the heavens.

“Eris, the fire-starter.” A dark-eyed, olive-skinned woman glared at a point somewhere in the distance.

“Sofia.” Carwyn’s voice was sad. Softer, but still frozen, was the woman in the center who had drunk the goblet of blood. Her skin was a deep olive, like the glaring woman, but her eyes and features looked more Egyptian than Greek.

Next to her was another pale man, his skin nearly blue in the moonlight, his dark brown beard falling down his chest. His skin glowed with a sheen of water, and his eyes—like his fellow elders—were fixed to a point high over the heads of those who worshipped him.

“And that is Laskaris.”

Lucien didn’t wait for Brigid. He had no idea how the fire vampire was getting to Alitea, nor did he care. He held on to Tenzin’s hand as they flew across the Aegean Sea, knowing Baojia swam beneath them.

“We’re not going to beat them there,” Tenzin yelled.

“I know.”

“What do you think he’s planning to do with it?”

“I don’t know.”

And Lucien truly didn’t.

According to all accounts, vampires couldn’t be infected by Elixir by any means except human blood. The human had to become infected, then pass the virus to an immortal. Lucien was racking his brain, trying to figure out how Laskaris could plan to use the Elixir against the ancients, but he just couldn’t see it.

Burn it? Vaporize it? Would breathing it trigger the virus? It was possible. They’d never tried it, and Lucien feared the result.

Unless Laskaris had infected a massive number of humans and let them loose on the island to infect his enemies, nothing else made sense. And letting loose that many drugged humans on your own population made no sense at all… unless you had a death wish.

Did Laskaris have a death wish?

Lucien didn’t know much about the ancient Greek. If he saw his end in sight, he might just want to take all his people with him along with any vampires who’d joined Kato and Saba’s side.

“Fly faster,” he yelled.

Kato stepped forward. “Laskaris, rouse yourself.”

No answer from the throne.

“We come in conquest,” Kato continued. “Rise and parley with us, or face your end with honor.”

No response. The guards waited on the edge of the temple, as still as statues themselves. The worshipers had halted, seemingly frozen in their movements.

Kato said, “Surrender your throne, and I may let your children live.”

Saba walked to a young woman, leaned in, and drew a deep breath. Her shoulders tensed, but the woman did not step away.

A rasping sound came from the thrones. Makeda realized it must have been one of the frozen vampires drawing a breath.

Laskaris didn’t move anything but his mouth. “Why do you come to me,” he wheezed, “king of my father’s fathers?”

“Surrender your seats,” Kato said. “And we may let you live.”

Laskaris’s chest rose with aching languor. By the time he spoke again, every eye had turned toward them. “Why… would I surrender… my throne?” His eyes were fixed on the ceiling of the temple. “Do gods… surrender… to kings?”

Makeda looked up to see an elaborately decorated fresco of the four Athenian immortals drawn in their glory. Laskaris rode a brilliant curling wave from a wind Jason blew from the corner of the scene. Behind them rose a mountain wreathed in fire with Eris’s face taking the place of the sun and Sofia’s body the verdant green island in the background. A menagerie of animals bowed along the edges. Cheetahs. Elephants. Lions and zebras. Human figures knelt at the vampires’ feet, dropping flower petals and palm fronds in worship.

And Makeda realized the four immortals had been staring at their own images painted in glory for hundreds—perhaps thousands—of years. As vampires around them bowed and worshipped and offered sacrifices to them, they’d been gazing at their own images, lost in the contemplation of their renown.

“Talk about believing your own press,” Makeda muttered.

Saba walked in front of Sofia and stared at the woman.

“What is she doing?” Makeda asked.

“Sofia is her daughter’s daughter,” Carwyn said. “She is Laskaris’s mate, but she’s of Saba’s direct line.”

A sweet fragrance drifted on the air, curling around Makeda and distracting her. She blinked and looked over her shoulder.

A blank-eyed woman stood behind her, holding a goblet of blood. “Drink,” she whispered, lifting the goblet to Makeda’s mouth.

Carwyn gripped Makeda’s arm and pulled her away, snapping her out of the odd trance the scent had produced. She looked around and throughout the temple, immortals in various states of undress were holding goblets out to their party, most of whom recoiled in disgust.

“Carwyn, what’s going on?”

Then Laskaris began to laugh, a grating, awful sound that sent chills down Makeda’s spine.