“Oh, get out of the Stone Age, Strykerius. There’s no such thing as noble duels anymore. This is a world where the better sneak wins.”

Perhaps, but he remembered a time and place where things didn’t work quite that way and after eleven thousand years he was too old to change his ways. “Even so, he is a cousin to us and—”

She sneered at him. “The Were-Hunters turned their backs on the Apollites and Daimons a long time ago. They don’t consider you family anymore.”

“Some do.”

“Kontis doesn’t,” she shot back. “If he did, he’d have never been able to sell his soul to the Dark-Hunters and join their ranks. For hundreds of years he’s hunted and killed your kind. I say geld the bastard and wear his shriveled balls as a trophy.”

Trates cringed at her words, as did several other males in the room, some of whom instinctively cupped themselves.

And Satara wonders why no man will date her…

“Leave him intact,” Stryker ordered the Apollite over the phone while he glared at his sister. “I’ll be there after sundown to check on him myself and he better be as he was when you captured him.”

Before the Apollite could respond, Stryker hung up the phone and returned it to his belt.

Satara rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you would show mercy to an enemy. You who cut the throat of your own son to appease Apollymi.”

Acting on pure instinct, Stryker reached up and grabbed her by the neck to silence her. “Enough,” he growled as her eyes bulged. “Unless you want to see the exact nature of my mercy, you’ll take a more respectful tone when you address me. I don’t care who you serve. Let Artemis find another handmaiden. One more word and I’ll silence you eternally.” Shoving her away from him, he stood up.

Utter silence filled the hall as he scanned the gathered Spathis. Physically no older than twenty-seven, each member of their clan was as beautiful as an angel… of death.