“I took him to the castle and dropped him on the bridge.”

Reevaluation time. Paris and Zacharel were not friends on any level. Wrath, on the other hand, must think angels could do no wrong. “Why would you do that?” Sure, Paris would be carried inside and locked up. Sure, he would escape, and he would be fine. But none of that mattered to her just then. Fury rose, dark and hot and dangerous.

Calm down. Before she whipped out that crystal blade Paris had given her and went to town on angel flesh. She’d so had enough of males and their abuse of supernatural abilities.

Zacharel blinked as if the answer should be obvious to one and all. “That, as you called it, is what one male does to another when they are arguing.”

“No. No, it’s not.”

His lips edged down in the slightest of frowns. “That is what your Paris did to William of the Dark only this morn.”

Well, she had no comeback for that, did she?

Zacharel shook out his wings, the white-and-gold feathers lifting slowly, elegantly. Snow glistened between the down. Her anger did nothing to lessen the impact of his beauty, the murky landscape somehow providing a suitable backdrop for him, dark where he was light.

No, not light, she mused. An aura of dawn radiated from him, causing him to glow.

“Well?” she prompted. “Will you take me to him?”

“Your eyes…” he said, his frown deepening.

“What about them?”

“I can see that Paris’s darkness has taken root inside you already.”

He spoke the words and somehow she knew they were true, the knowledge simply becoming a part of her. Paris’s darkness, the one his demon had given birth to, was indeed inside her. A small twinge of worry was quickly followed by a shrug of unconcern. Wrath lived inside her. What was one more entity?

“You’ve ignored my first question long enough. Now I’m taking over. Listen up, and listen good. I want you to take me back to the castle.”

The demand was unwise, unnecessary and counterproductive to her screw-Cronus plan, followed by her bagging and tagging of Galen, as well as her search for her sister, but that wasn’t going to stop her. Paris would fight to reach her, that protective side of his demanding he witness her escape from the realm, she knew that now. If that happened, he would be harmed.

“You intended to part company in two days,” he said, unwavering. “I merely sped things along.”

She’d been looking forward to those two days with Paris, had wanted to make love to him again and again and brand him inside her mind, her body, until her every cell smelled like him.

“You keep reminding us that we can’t be together.” Suspicions tangoed with her thoughts as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Why is that?”

“Because you both need reminding.” Simply stated, as if she should be ashamed for asking.

“Why?” she insisted.

“Why would you want to be with him?” Zacharel’s dark head tilted to the side, his study of her intensifying. “Do you love him?”

Did she, when doing so would cause their break to hurt that much more? “I like him.” A lot. Like, really, really a lot. And she respected him. Admired him. Craved him like a drug. He was witty and kind and protective and loyal, and even though he had every reason to despise her, he hadn’t once treated her as if she were the enemy.

“We need you in the heavens, Sienna.”

Did they, now? “Well, get in line. Lately, everyone needs me.” And no one would explain the reason. She fisted her hands and propped them on her hips. “What is it you think I can do for you? Because right now, I’m having trouble taking care of myself.”

“All I know is that you will herald our victory in the most gruesome war this world has ever seen.”

Forget sputtering. She gaped. Her, responsible for winning a war. No pressure, though, right? She so couldn’t deal with this right now.

Zacharel stiffened, glanced over one strong shoulder. “Cronus comes,” he said. “He has the answers you seek, though I would not trust him were I you.”

Stomach cramp. Not Cronus, not now, and not outside the castle. He would flip. Although, keeping him out of the castle would keep him away from Paris, so… “Get lost, angel boy.”

At that, he quirked a brow. “I will allow you to leave with him. I don’t think you will thank me afterward, however. Until we meet again, demon girl.”

He was gone a moment later, and what do you know, Cronus appeared a moment after that. No longer dressed as a Goth reject from hell, he now wore a gray silk suit tailor-made for his frame, all elegant lines and overflowing bank account.

Wrath stopped prowling and started slamming at her skull, very much wanting a go at him, but unable to figure out why. What he didn’t do was fill her mind with images of the king’s sins. Weird.

Cronus glanced left, right, and frowned. “Why are you outside the castle? For that matter, how did you get outside the castle?”

“Wrath took over,” she said, lest he puzzle out that she had been aided by other immortals.

“Ah.” Smiling, revealing his dazzling pearly whites, he extended a crimson rose in her direction. “For you.”

“I, uh…” Not just stunned but completely flummoxed, she accepted the dewy bloom. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head ever so slightly as he accepted her appreciation. “And that’s not the only gift I come bearing. I have what you need.” A clear vial filled with glittering violet liquid followed the same path as the rose. “My apologies for the tardiness in its delivery.”

His apologies? Seriously? “Don’t worry about it?” A question when it should have been a statement.

Cronus cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Drink.”

Because she had no desire to confess that she’d already been fed, she took a small sip of what she now knew was ambrosia. What she didn’t know was why she needed ambrosia, or why Paris had looked ill when he’d handed her that flask.

Cool coconut flowed down her throat, sprouted wings and flew through her entire body. And wow, it packed a powerful punch. Both strength and weakness blazed through her, cannibalizing off each other and leaving her in a fog.

“That’s a good slave girl,” he mumbled.

I love being patronized, I really do. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, swaying as she returned the vial to him.

He waved his hand and the glass disappeared. “I must show you something,” he said, and with another wave of his hand, her surroundings fell away. From warm to cold, dark to light.

From salvation to damnation.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

SUDDENLY SIENNA WAS STANDING inside an unfamiliar chamber with white walls that stretched so high she could barely discern the domed ceiling above. Portraits hung everywhere. There was no furniture, just marble columns that boasted the occasional string of ivy, and stands that held sculptures and other crafted artifacts.

To stop herself from screaming from the mental calamity of the location switch, she bit her tongue until she tasted blood.

“This,” Cronus said, splaying his arms and slowly pivoting, “is the Chamber of Futures.” There was a reverent quality to his voice, one she’d never before heard from him. “Here, destiny takes shape and endless possibilities await, for this is where my All-Seeing Eye records her visions.”

“All-Seeing Eye?” She was still so disoriented that it was nearly impossible to get the words out.

“A female who sees into heaven and hell, time and space, present, past and future.” Every syllable held a new layer of urgency. “When one dies, another takes her place. Over the centuries, many have served me. There are no limits to how far back or how far forward these women can view. No limits to how high or low their scope.”

To have such a power would be both a blessing and a curse, she thought.

“Everything you see here was created by my Eyes.”

Sienna tucked the rose behind her ear, forgetting about his weird mood as she tripped her way to the nearest portrait. In it, an older, frailer version of Cronus stared back at her. He had gray hair, wrinkled skin, and wore a long white robe. This was the god she’d first met. Only this one was dirty, bruised and trapped in a cage.

“I have learned that everyone has several different futures, and the choices they make ultimately decide which road they will travel. Come,” he added without a breath, taking her by the forearm and ushering her through the long, seemingly endless expanse of the room. “There is something you must see.”

With every step she took, the portraits rearranged themselves, gliding over the wall, changing places with fluid grace. She didn’t try to pull away from him. Dizziness held her in thrall, and she needed the anchor of his hand to keep her upright.

“These Eyes, they do not always understand what they see, for they cannot determine the context of the actions they record. They do not know if they see past or future, how to stop something or how to make it come to pass.”

“And so you have to guess,” she finished for him.

“Correct.” He stopped, and so did the movement of the portraits.

In the frame now in front of her, warriors fought to the death in every direction. Not just any warriors, but familiar faces. There was Galen, his white wings outstretched, his long, bloody sword raised. Before him was Cronus, with a thin line of blood connecting one ear to another—his head about to slide from his neck.

Sienna’s heartbeat quickened as she took in the rest. There was Paris, off to the side, watching what happened to Cronus with wide, shocked eyes. Blood caked him. His mouth was open, as if he were shouting something.

“This is one of the futures that await me,” the king said. “Long ago, my first Eye warned me that a warrior with wings of white would someday slay me. I assumed it would be an angel, only to later realize there were other warriors, like the Lords of the Underworld, who were equally capable of doing so. And then my newest Eye painted this.”