The Dark-Hunters (855 page)

Which brings us back to baby numero uno: Stryker.

Archon knew the Atlantean queen was pregnant, so he demanded that her baby be slain as well.

You know, women don’t take really well to executive orders regarding the death of their children.

By now, the queen had figured out that the baby she carried was Apollo’s son. She knew that Apollo would never let his son be killed, especially by the Atlantean gods. She kept that smug thought close to her heart all throughout her labor. Only … the moment after she gave birth to her son, he was slain before her eyes.

What the Atlantean queen didn’t know was that Apollo had pulled his own switcheroo—with the help of Artemis, Apollo had placed his unborn child inside the womb of one of his priestesses at Delphi.

The child the Atlantean queen had given birth to was baby number three.

Poor baby number three. He didn’t live long enough to be a problem and the poor human queen wasn’t told about the switch.

The Atlantean queen hated Apollo for abandoning her and her now-deceased child … and with good reason. A widow, she also resented the fact that Apollo never came back to her bed to get her pregnant again. She steeped in that bitterness, letting it infect her and poison her soul. Letting it breed vengeance. Letting the dish get nice and cold before she served it to Apollo on a silver platter.

Based on Apollo’s gigolo history, she knew it was only a matter of time.

In 9529
B.C.
, nineteen years later, the Greeks gave it a go and tried to woo Apollo to their cause. They knew fighting against the Apollites was a lost cause, so to help win favor with Apollo and hopefully gain his backing they sent to him Ryssa, the most beautiful woman ever born. Ryssa instantly charmed the god and won his heart. Having the same weaknesses all deities seem to have, Apollo succumbed to her beauty and sowed his ever-fertile god seed. Ryssa bore him a son, and the tide of war changed in favor of the Greeks.

The Atlantean queen immediately ordered the death of Ryssa and her son, instructing her minions to not hold back in their brutality, to make it look as if wild animals had torn the woman and child to shreds.

They did their job, perhaps a little too well.

And so Apollo destroyed Atlantis (at least that’s what Apollo says).

His beloved sister Artemis managed to stop him before he destroyed all the Apollites (and with them, the world), so instead he cursed his wayward children. He named them the wild animals that had slaughtered his mistress and son, giving them characteristics befitting such beasts (the fangs and eyes of predators) and forcing them to feed on one another’s blood every few days in order to survive. He banished them from his domain, the sun, as he could no longer bear to look upon them and be reminded of their treachery.

To this day, Apollites only live to the age of twenty-seven: three times three times three, the age Ryssa was at her death. On the last day they die an excruciatingly painful death, slowly disintegrating to dust until the sun finally sets.

Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely

Cowards aren’t the only ones who die a thousand deaths. Sometimes heroes do too.

—Sin

Apollo overlooked one tiny little detail when he cursed his children—and that was that he had cursed
all
of them, including the infamous baby number one, tucked away all safe at Delphi.

Words have power. And, like Eddie Vedder says: Once spoken, they can’t be taken back.

Apollo should have also considered this on his son’s wedding day, which occurred before Apollo cursed his son’s people. “In your hands you hold my future,” he said. “Your blood is mine, and it is through you and your future children that I live.” Too bad he didn’t go to his own Oracle before he made that promise, huh? If he had, he’d have known that by making that particular pledge of loyalty, Apollo had just damned himself to extinction.

When his son’s bloodline dies out, so will Apollo … and with him the sun itself, the earth, and all who dwell here.

Oops.

Cassandra Peters Tryggvason is a direct descendent of the son of Apollo (Stryker), and through her, her son Erik. If you ever find yourself in a situation to do so, you must protect these two people at all costs. They are worth more than your life and mine put together.

Not to be clichéd, but the fate of the world actually does depend on it.

Today, many Apollites blend in seamlessly with the human world, while others live in segregated communes. There are no records of all existing Apollite groups, but there are known Apollite communities in major cities all over the world, among them Athens, Buenos Aires, Helsinki, Hong Kong, London, Paris, Rio, Tokyo, and Montreal. In America, they can be found in New York, Seattle, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Miami, and of course, New Orleans. (It is said that Apollites and Daimons stay away from Washington, D.C., due to the undesirable overpopulation of soulless politicians … but this may just be a rumor.) Daimons are often welcomed into these communes.

The Arcadians and Katagaria will always tolerate their cousin Apollites in their sanctuaries, but never Daimons. Their brethren they can control, but Daimons always mean trouble since it will invariably cause Dark-Hunters to come and Daimons tend to eat their paying clientele—it’s just not good business sense.

Apollites are territorial, and their emblems may vary, but there are a few common themes. Most involve the sun (and therefore Apollo) in some form or fashion. Teardrops are also used to denote the loss of loved ones. These can appear as tattoos, banners, or signs. When an Apollite enters a community, they must swear a blood oath to uphold the laws and beliefs of that community for as long as they choose to reside there.

We certainly don’t begrudge them their communities—the Apollite life is often lonely and always short. They have ventured far and wide over the long years to find safe lands for their children and brethren, and we respect that. Many Apollite children are orphaned and forced to live in small groups, or alone among humans. Many do not know their history, and do not find out until it is far too late.

It’s a depressing proposition any way you slice it.

They may not all have blond hair (another rumor Daimons enjoy perpetuating), but they do have certain similar physical characteristics that are easy to spot if you’re looking for them.

Full-blooded Apollites cannot be in sunlight. They will burst into dust if they are. Halfbloods are born with varying degrees of sunlight intolerance, but it’s not something sunblock can cure. Most are so sensitive that they spend most—if not all—of their life underground.

Due to their shortened life span, Apollites today mature at an extremely advanced rate. (Congratulate me, I’m trying really hard not to make a Chia Pet analogy.)

Apollites reach adulthood at age eleven, and often marry between the ages of twelve and fifteen. (At an Apollite wedding, the bride is usually given away by a sponsor, since the parents are probably dead.)

They gestate their babies in about twenty weeks—roughly half the time of normal humans.

They all still die at twenty-seven. Halfbloods may live longer.

The only way for a full-blooded Apollite to survive past that age is to turn Daimon.

Daimons

At worst, we just have a stomachache from the blood.

—Stryker

Daimons (what modern-day humans would call “vampires”) cheat the twenty-seven-year death sentence by taking human souls into their bodies. Once an Apollite has a foreign soul, it turns them into something other than they were, something evil and uncaring. Any Apollite that takes a human soul into his or her body is instantly classified a Daimon. There’s no real gray area there.

I suppose it’s a bit like being pregnant—either you are, or you’re not.

This, too, goes back to Apollymi—she was the one who adopted Stryker, Apollo’s accidentally ill-fated son, and taught him how to take souls into his body in order to elongate his life. It was a lesson Stryker gladly shared with others of his race, legions of others who became Apollymi’s grateful and willing servants.

As long as they maintain a soul, they live. But the human soul fades, so Daimons must feed every few weeks. The stronger a soul is, the longer it lasts, but even the strongest of souls can only last at most five to six months. The only soul that does not wane is that of an unborn child—it can sustain a body until that body dies.

Not surprisingly, Daimons prize the death of a child or pregnant woman above all else.

Apollites are not born instinctively knowing how to take a soul into their body. There are certain things that have to be learned. For instance, there is a coagulating gel in Apollite saliva, which is why they must continue to suck after opening a wound. (And let me tell you—you don’t want an Apollite to spit in your eye. Hoo-boy. Kiss your vision good-bye after that one.) It’s a significant education. A newly turned Apollite has to be trained, and so must find a Daimon willing to mentor them.

When a Daimon takes a soul, it takes all the powers with it, which is why it is very dangerous for a Were-Hunter to fall prey to a Daimon. However, the Daimon population does warn its brethren to be wary of the Weres, since they tend to have large, powerful families with long lives and long memories … who can also hunt in daylight.

If a soul is eaten by Daimons and it dies within his body, that soul is lost forever. And yes, some of us are constantly aware of how incredibly many are lost. I know for a fact that whenever a Daimon takes a soul, it screams … and Ash can hear it.

Think about that the next time you consider letting a Daimon out of your sight alive. If you kill them before the soul dies, the soul is freed and is then able to go to its eternal rest.

Daimons and vampires are not exactly synonymous. There are four kinds of vampires: soul-suckers, bloodsuckers, energy- or dream-suckers, and Slayers. (Slayers destroy simply for the sake of destruction.) Similarly, there are also different types of Daimons—they are listed in the following glossary. Beware of Spathi Daimons especially; they are the warrior Daimons that can and will put the most hurt on you. Even worse, you don’t kill a Spathi Daimon. You release his essence, but if one of his brethren or children want to bring him back, they can. And have.

The one element all Daimons have in common is the shadowy “birthmark” that forms in the center of their chests when they cross over. This mark is where all the souls they have consumed gather. If punctured, it will release the captured souls and end the Daimon’s life.

Which is pretty much what we’re going for here.

Daimons can also die from exposure to sunlight, or from blood loss—like, say, if you ripped out one’s jugular. (Ah, the things we learn from trial and error.) Dark-Hunter blood is poisonous to Daimons. Blood is important. Blood is life.

But it’s best to always go for a Daimon’s heart.

Strike at its most vulnerable spot.

That’s Dark-Hunter to You

The bad guys don’t knock.

—Romeo Pontis

Daimons aren’t exactly going to seek you out, so you have to know where to find them. Luckily, newly formed Daimons aren’t too bright (it’s that whole “we’re only twenty-seven and have limited world experience” thing), and tend to follow established feeding patterns and behavior. Unluckily, humans aren’t much brighter and still tend to fall for some of the oldest tricks in the book.

Tips on How to Spot a Daimon

Sure Bets

• They look twenty-seven

• Blond roots

• Inkblot on chest

• Can’t dance

• Mesmeric gaze, scoping the people around them—like a tiger eyeing a steak

• They know who you are and run as soon as you appear

Definite, but Not Definable

• Fangs

• Pasty complexion

• Smart-ass comments

• Tall

• Travel in even-numbered groups

• Irrationally scared of bees

• Teardrop tattoos

• Apollite tattoos (pictured here)

I know. Sad, but true.

(And hey, no offense if you used to be one …)

Long-haired Daimons with supermodel good looks tend to hang out with the Goth crowd. Think about it … what better place to blend in than with a bunch of other fanged, pasty-complexioned young people? Goth chicks think Daimon teeth are hot. Daimons think Goth chicks are like potato chips.