Better yet, he knew that it could work.
She swallowed hard. “I-I’m not a mage. Or a witch. I can’t cast spells. And I already tried to break the door down with my strength. It wouldn’t budge.”
“No… spells. No… muscles. You’re strong”—his fingers lifted from her chest then grazed her forehead—“here.” His touch slid to her temple. “Use… this.”
His touch disappeared, and she heard the soft thud as his hand dropped to land against his thigh. The muscles in his neck relaxed even more, pushing the weight of his head against her palm.
She swallowed hard. He was growing weaker. If she didn’t try something, he really was going to die here. And for reasons she wasn’t ready to examine just yet, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen.
A strength she hadn’t known was in her surged in her veins. Gently, she tipped his cheek against the rocks so he could lean against the wall without falling. Then she squeezed his hand and whispered, “Hold on. Just hold on a few minutes more.”
She pushed to her feet, faced the door, and wiped her hands on her filthy skirt again. She had no idea if this would work, but she had to try.
Wrapping one hand around the amulet hanging at her chest, she lifted the other to the door handle and focused every thought she had on that lock.
The amulet grew hot in her palm. So hot she was afraid it might burst into flames against her skin. But she didn’t let go. She didn’t stop focusing. She willed the handle to turn as she flexed her muscles.
A click sounded, echoing through the space. Then the handle moved with barely any effort.
Talisa’s eyes shot open. She jerked back, yanking the door open. Stale air from the dungeon whooshed around her.
“It worked. Oh my gods, it worked.” She braced her foot against the door to keep it open, then knelt to reach for Zagreus. “Come on. We’re through.”
He grunted as she drew him up against her and off the floor. He was even heavier now, harder to move because he was barely helping. She managed to get him to his feet and through the doorway, but as soon as the door snapped closed behind them, he stumbled and went down.
“Zagreus!”
She wasn’t able to grab him before he hit the floor. He didn’t make a sound, though. Nothing but a thud as his body collapsed in the dirt.
Dust flew up in the air, making Talisa cough. She stumbled and dropped to her knees. Feeling around in the dark, she realized he wasn’t moving. He wasn’t moving at all.
Panic closed in again as she quickly found his neck and searched for his pulse.
There.
But even slower.
“Skata.” If only she had a fucking torch so she could see where the hell they were.
A hiss sounded above her head. Then light suddenly illuminated the dark dungeon as torches burst into flame along the walls every ten feet, leading a path straight to the stairs that led up to the main level of the castle.
She had no idea how that had happened, but as she looked down at Zagreus, bloody and bruised and still as death against the dirt floor, she suddenly didn’t care.
She leaned over him. “I’m gonna get you help. Do you hear me?” She tipped his face toward hers. “Zagreus?”
No movement. His pulse was barely a whisper now. And his breaths were growing slower and farther apart.
Oh gods…
Tears burned her eyes. Tears that told her a part of her was about to die, too.
“Don’t you dare give up. You hold on.” She pressed her lips to his temple then quickly pushed to her feet. “Hold on just a little bit longer. For me.”
Chapter Nine
Talisa’s pulse was a whir in her ears as she hit the grand hall.
The room was dimly lit by a smoldering fire in the great stone hearth. At this hour—well after midnight—it was silent, the velvet couches and plush chairs that had been occupied earlier completely empty.
Swallowing hard, she rushed out the main doors, crossed the cobblestone courtyard, went up and over the bridge, then swept up the circular stone steps to the gatehouse on the wall walk above. She didn’t knock, just shoved the heavy wood door open with her shoulder as the sentries inside lurched to their feet.
“The prince is in trouble.” She gripped the door handle and leaned back against the old wood, struggling to breathe. “He was attacked by a pack of satyrs. I managed to get him into the dungeon corridor via the hidden tunnel behind the waterfall, but he’s badly injured. He needs a healer.”
Wide-eyed, several sentries rushed out the door and down the steps.
To the two that remained, looking equally as shell-shocked at what she’d announced, Talisa said, “The border magick is flickering. You need to get more guards up here as fast as possible to secure the castle. A couple of those satyrs got away. They’ll be back soon with reinforcements.”
“Yes, princess.”
The two spoke in rushed words as Talisa headed back down the steps.
The grand hall was already abuzz with activity by the time she made her way back inside. She spotted Nysa belting a robe around her waist on the far side of the room, rushing down the last few steps, worry and fear in her blue eyes. Beside her, a tall, dark-haired male Talisa had seen before was already dressed in a leather breastplate, a sword at his hip, his features alert and highly focused.
“Talisa?” Nysa met up with her in the middle of the room. “I’m so glad you’re all right. But…” Her gaze skipped over Talisa’s ripped dress and haggard appearance. “What happened to you?”
“I’m fine. It’s not me. There were satyrs. A pack of them.” The dark-haired male stood beside Nysa, listening closely. “Ana... She... She was working with them. She led me right to them.”
“Our Ana?” Nysa asked.
“Yes. No. I mean, she’s not who you think she is. She’s not a nymph. She was using glamour to hide her true appearance here behind the kingdom’s magick. It must have given her some kind of enhanced abilities.”
Talisa glanced at the soldiers rushing through the room with armor and weapons. This was taking too long. She had to get back to Zagreus.
She stepped toward the hallway that led to the stairs below. “He’s badly injured. You need to help him.” She reached for Nysa’s arm to pull the nymph with her. “Just come with me and—“
“Get back,” a deep voice called from the direction of the stairwell. “Everyone make room for the prince.”
Voices quieted. All eyes shifted that direction. Several of the sentries Talisa had alerted in the gatehouse suddenly appeared, carrying a bloody and still Zagreus on some kind of stretcher.
Talisa’s heart lurched into her throat. She pushed her way through the crowd to his side and quickly reached for his wrist to feel for a pulse.
She swallowed hard. He looked so much worse in the light. Cuts and bruises and bite marks and scrapes. And blood. So much blood. Everywhere.
She moved her fingers against his wrist, growing frantic when she couldn’t find his pulse.
There.
Oh, thank the Fates. It was still faint, but steady.
Talisa quickly looked over her shoulder. “Nysa?”
Nysa’s eyes were wide and horrified as she stepped up at Talisa’s side, her gaze skipping over Zagreus’s bruised and battered face, his torn skin, filthy and shredded clothing, and the deeper wounds—all over his body—oozing blood. “Dear gods.”