Urian felt the power of an ancient being roll through the room like a tidal wave three seconds before the door to the inn opened. No one else seemed to notice, but it made every nerve ending on his body stand up.

And how could it not?

This creature, for lack of a better term, stood every bit as tall as his father, at six feet eight inches. With long jet-black hair that flowed past his shoulders, he was dressed as a barbarian in furs and black flowing robes and trousers. But what caught Urian’s attention even more than his godlike essence was the staff he carried.

The twisted wood was topped with Apollymi’s sun symbol, which was pierced by three lightning bolts.

Even Paris, who stood beside him, scowled as soon as he saw the emblem. “Is that …”

“It is.” Urian felt his arm heating up to an unbearable level. Especially when the man-creature turned a pair of swirling silver eyes toward him.

Paris sucked his breath in sharply.

“You should go.”

His brother hesitated. “What about you?”

“I won’t be far behind.”

Still Paris didn’t move.

Irritated, Urian pushed him toward Davyn. He projected his thoughts to both of them. Take your husband and get out of here. Now! Through the back door.

“Acheron?”

The creature turned toward a Greek soldier while Urian shielded his brother’s exit. He wanted to make sure nothing happened to either Paris or Davyn. Not tonight.

Yet he felt a peculiar pull toward Acheron. There was some kind of familiarity. As if he should know him. He couldn’t explain it. Like something inside him knew this man, or that he should who he was.

He’d never felt anything like it.

Still his arm throbbed. Thank the gods he had it completely covered with a leather pauldron, bracer, and glove, and his chalmys.

Suddenly, the voices in his head grew louder.

Not just the human souls he’d taken. There were more now.

Disoriented, Urian moved to leave only to find Acheron in his way. Up close, he appeared physically younger than Urian. Not by much, maybe a couple of years. And they were about the same build. Yet it annoyed him that the bastard had a couple of inches on his height.

Acheron narrowed his gaze on him. “Do I know you?”

Urian shook his head and without a word, he quickly brushed past him and left.

Acheron gasped as he felt the light touch like a physical blow to his body. More like a sledgehammer to his chest. Indeed, he could barely breathe. It was so severe that it activated his Charonte protector on his arm.

“Shh, Simi,” he breathed, stroking her with his hand to calm her so that she didn’t peel herself off his skin in front of the humans gathered in the tavern and frighten them with her sudden demonic appearance.

He wasn’t harmed. At least not physically. But he was concerned.

Heading back toward the table, he sat down across from the hardened warlord he’d come here to meet. With dark blond hair and frigid green eyes that gave the illusion they glowed, he had a scar across his collarbone where it appeared someone had once tried to cut his throat. Given the violence Thorn was capable of, Acheron was certain that person hadn’t survived their stupidity. Indeed, in this din of warriors, Thorn stood out as one not to be trifled with. He had an air of death and cruelty.

But Acheron knew better. He wasn’t cruel to anyone who didn’t have it coming. Thorn was a champion for humanity. Centuries ago, he’d taken it upon himself to police the demons who preyed upon them and send them back to their dimensions so that they couldn’t harm innocents. It was a thankless task, yet Thorn never complained.

Well … “never” was a bit of a stretch.

And while Acheron was the newly designated leader of the Dark-Hunters Artemis had created, he knew nothing of leading others.

Thorn, on the other hand, had been born to lead an army. From the minute he’d been old enough to sit on his own, his stepfather had taught him to ride. Back then, he’d assumed he would one day be heir. Little had he known, he had a much larger destiny.

One in which he wouldn’t lead that man’s empire, but rather an army of Hellchasers who fought demons and drove them back to their respective hells.

If anyone had leadership advice on how to wrangle the snarly bastards Acheron was now charged with keeping alive and intact, he couldn’t think of anyone better than Akantheus Leucious Forneus of the Brakadians, or the Death Collector as he was best known.

And he definitely looked the part. Dressed in a mad ensemble of furs and leather that was covered with an assortment of metal plates sewn on to resemble dragon scales over chain mail, he looked as if he were part man, part beast. His long, unbound hair didn’t help. Nor his beard that was neither long nor short. It merely appeared that he couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to have one or be clean-shaven. But then that was Thorn. He lived by no one’s dictates but his own.

Even his weaponry was that way. While most carried swords, his weapons of choice were a whip, a sling bow, and a long dagger, and one clawed glove that resembled the hand of a falcon.

Acheron gave him a head tilt. “Did you see that blond warrior who was just here?”

Thorn squinted toward the door where he’d exited. “What of him?”

“Was he a Daimon?”

“With blue eyes?”

He had a point, but … “What was he?”

Thorn’s brow shot north at Acheron’s question as he reached to refill his cup. “You don’t know?”

“No.” There was no missing the shocked disbelief in his tone. As an Atlantean god, it wasn’t often Acheron didn’t know everything about everyone the moment he met them. The only time he didn’t was if they impacted his future some way, or if they were a friend or family.

Yet he’d never met that person before.

Thorn snorted, then smirked and took a long drink of the mead. “Love that look on your face, Akipoo.”

He gave him a droll stare. “Don’t make me stab you.”

“You can try.”

And that was why Leucious went by Thorn—as in he was a thorn in everyone’s arse. Especially that of his father, the source of all evil.

“Do you, or do you not, know anything about the man who was just here?”

Thorn scratched at his neck. “I know he wasn’t human. Whatever is setting off the hairs on your ass is making mine stand up too. But what he was … I don’t know.”

“Animal, vegetable, or mineral.”

Thorn laughed. “Demon or Daimon.”

“You said he wasn’t a Daimon.”

Thorn shrugged. “I say a lot of things. Usually no one listens.”

Acheron shook his head.

“So … tell me again about these Dark-Hunters. Their job is to hunt down Daimons and free the human souls inside them before the souls perish completely?”

He nodded. “That’s the theory. According to Artemis, the moment a Daimon coerces a human soul into their body, it begins dying. If we can get to them in time, we can pierce the mark and release the soul back into the universe where it can return to its source.”

Thorn let out a low whistle. “How do they get the souls?”

Acheron shrugged. “Damned if I know.”

“Well, I don’t envy you this task.”

“Why?”

Thorn sat forward. “I just return demons. You’re talking about training warriors to kill them. My experience, things that have psychic powers and are related to a god don’t die easy. And when they do, they try to take you with them.”