Page 9 of Ivy & Bone

CYRUS

Cyrus was falling, his body spinning out of control. A dizzying array of lights and shapes blinded him, and then, just as suddenly, it all stopped. A suffocating warmth pressed in on him, making it hard to breathe. The air smelled of dust and moisture and decay.

He knew without looking that he was in the mortal realm. His lungs strained with each inhale. Gods, it was stifling in this horrible place.

And even so, the magic within him sang with recognition. That restlessness, that agitated presence inside him, finally settled as if to say, At last. I’m home.

As Cyrus’s eyes adjusted to the bleak darkness surrounding him, he made out a woman standing before him. Alarm mingled with the familiar sense of betrayal he’d harbored inside him for so long. For one awful moment, he thought it was her. The one who’d betrayed him. He was back in that village, and the witch was entrapping him again . . .

But no. This woman was different. Her eyes were lavender—such a strange shade in a human. And unlike the brilliant red hair of the witch Cyrus remembered, this woman’s hair was dark and mussed with curls. Her brown skin was streaked with dirt and blood.

No, not blood. Cyrus inhaled deeply. It smelled like . . . fruit. Her fingertips and forearms were stained a deep red that must have been some kind of jam or juice. Cyrus almost laughed at the absurdity until he sensed the power emanating from her.

She was a witch. And a powerful one.

A snarl built up his throat. He would’ve stormed toward her and ripped out her throat if not for the spell binding him in place. He could easily sense the restraints of her magic holding him there. Trapping him. Shackling him.

She had caged him, just like the other witch had. And he would kill her, too.

“Witch,” Cyrus growled. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

The woman lifted her chin. To her credit, she didn’t seem at all alarmed by his horns or nudity, though her gaze flicked down to his cock for the briefest of seconds. “Assuming you’re the god of the Underworld, then, yes, I know exactly what I’ve done.”

His whole body trembled from the authority emanating from her voice. Gods, this woman had power. It almost made him drunk with envy. How? How could a mortal possess this much magic?

And how could he extract it from her and use it for himself? Surely that much power could undo whatever Aidoneus had done to Acheron . . .

Cyrus closed his eyes momentarily. No, he chided himself. This same power-hungry lust was what had gotten him into trouble in the first place. No, what he needed to do was convince this witch to send him back immediately. The sooner the better.

Cyrus opened his eyes and spread his arms. “Well, my lady, I am yours to command. What would you have me do?”

The woman blinked, no doubt caught off guard by his sudden complacency. Suspicion crept into her gaze as she surveyed him. “I want you to bring my sister back from the dead.”

Cyrus schooled his features into something neutral, though he was certainly startled by this request. Yes, mortals often wished to resurrect their loved ones. But ordinarily, witches knew better. They understood the barrier between life and death wasn’t so easily crossed.

“What makes you think I can do this?” Cyrus asked quietly.

“You are the god of the dead, are you not? And tonight is Samhain.”

Ah, Samhain. The humans’ pitiful explanation for the resurgence of death magic. Whenever the magic of the Underworld seeped into the mortal realm, the humans had to come up with some reason for it. Something to explain the unexplainable.

But some things could not be understood. Even Cyrus did not understand the full extent of the death magic floating in the air.

“Let me rephrase,” Cyrus said at last. “What makes you think I would do this for you? Surely, you understand there are laws I cannot break.” His mouth curved into a smirk. “Even for witches as beautiful as you.”

He expected her to blush, but instead, she lifted her chin, her eyes flashing with indignation. “Spare me your flattery. It won’t get you anywhere.”

Cyrus only lifted his eyebrows. Fair enough. Though, he couldn’t deny she was beautiful. Despite the mess of dirt and fruit juice along her hands and skirts, her soft curves and ample bosom were quite pleasing for him to look at. Not to mention her smooth skin, full lips, and luscious curls. Yes, she was certainly prettier than the other mortals he had encountered. No doubt about that.

But he shouldn’t find her pretty. She was his captor. She had entrapped him. She was nothing more than his enemy.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she snapped.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to devour me.”

A wicked smile spread across his face, and before he could stop himself, he said, “Maybe I do.” Let her feel unsettled—taken aback by his forwardness.

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