Heat for Hephaestus

by Sotia Lazu

  Heat for Hephaestus

  Olympians Ascending, Volume 5

  Sotia Lazu

  Published by Acelette Press, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  HEAT FOR HEPHAESTUS

  First edition. December 15, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Sotia Lazu.

  Written by Sotia Lazu.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue – Hephaestus

  Chapter One – Hephaestus

  Chapter Two - Laura

  Chapter Three - Hephaestus

  Chapter Four - Laura

  Chapter Five - Hephaestus

  Chapter Six - Laura

  Chapter Seven - Hephaestus

  Chapter Eight - Laura

  Chapter Nine - Hephaestus

  Chapter Ten - Laura

  Chapter Eleven - Hephaestus

  Chapter Twelve - Laura

  Chapter Thirteen - Hephaestus

  Chapter Fourteen - Laura

  Chapter Fifteen - Laura

  Chapter Sixteen - Hephaestus

  Chapter Seventeen - Laura

  Chapter Eighteen - Hephaestus

  Chapter Nineteen - Hephaestus

  Chapter Twenty - Laura

  Chapter Twenty-one - Hephaestus

  Chapter Twenty-two - Laura

  Epilogue - Hephaestus

  Prologue – Hephaestus

  “HEY, HEPH. CAN YOU please fix the swing? The chain gave way again, and the little ones are crying because they want to play.” Angeliki gives me the wide-eyed gaze that can make me do anything she asks. I don’t even mind that she knows it’ll work.

  I’m supposed to finish sanding the new kitchen table before dinner, but Angeliki is twisting her skirt from side to side, flashing her long legs at me, and my sense of responsibility is muffled. “Sure.” I smile with my mouth closed, intensely aware my upper left canine is missing.

  The hug I get is totally worth the risk of getting scolded.

  She’s fourteen and as angelic as her name implies, with her pale skin, her long blond hair hanging down to her waist, and those huge golden-brown eyes that sparkle when she laughs. And I’ve been in love with her since I was placed in this home, last spring. The three ladies taking care of all twenty-one of us always say we should support each other like we’re siblings. I’ve tried, but there’s no way I can think of Angeliki as my sister. I want to be her boyfriend and hold her hand and bring her nice things, like the trinkets I’ve seen her hide in that folded napkin in her nightstand drawer—which I’m pretty sure are the same ones Ms. Korina has been looking for all week.

  Besides, Angeliki and I couldn’t look any less like siblings. My complexion is darker, my eyes almost black. Where she’s lithe, I’m stocky. Bulky, maybe. I’m working out, though. And at least I’m taller than her, even if she’s a year older.

  I’m still not as tall as Loukas. At sixteen, he’s older than both of us, and he could be Angeliki’s brother. Or a teen model. He has that chiseled-cheekbones look Angeliki gushes over in the magazines she has her cousin sneak in.

  But Angeliki sees him as a brother, like she sees me. And she asked me to fix the swing. Because I can fix anything.

  I leave the sandpaper on the table and follow her outside and to the tiny, old playground that sits in the center of the circle of houses comprising our home for the time being. None of the younger kids Angeliki mentioned are around. Probably dispersed when they saw the swing was broken. Not like you can hold their interest for long.

  Loukas is here, though. He greets me with a nod I pretend not to notice. He and I aren’t exactly friends, but we don’t have to be. He won’t be around long. His mother’s had some legal issues, and his father is out of the country. He’ll come get Loukas soon.

  Most kids here won’t stay long. Just until their parents get their shit together or relatives come through for them. I’m here for the long run. My parents disappeared when I was two, leaving me outside a church with nothing but the clothes on my back, a note stating my first name and age, and an odd carved cube, made out of wood. I’ve been through several foster homes the eleven years since, but this is supposed to be my last stop till adulthood.

  Angeliki tugs on my wrist and points at the single remaining swing. “See? The link is bent. You can fix it, can’t you?”

  The seat hangs crookedly, the bottom chain link snapped open. The metal is a centimeter thick, but it’s an easy fix. I hook the bottom link of the chain hanging from the horizontal bar through the opening, and clasp it with both hands. I don’t exactly use raw strength, to form it into a perfect ring again. I think of the metal melting into place, my hands the vice that reshapes it. When I let go, the swing can hold my weight.

  I sit and demonstrate just that, and Angeliki squeals in delight and throws her arms around me. “Thank you, Heph. I knew you could do it. You’re the best.” She kisses my cheek, and my skin burns where her lips touched it. I’d do anything for another of these kisses.

  I stumble back awkwardly and motion for her to take a seat, but Loukas is faster. He parks his ass on the wooden plank between the chains, wraps his arm around her waist, and pulls her into his lap. “Let’s see if it holds us better this time,” he says, looking straight at me.

  She laughs coquettishly and loops her arms around his neck, not sparing me another glance. Her hair blows behind her with the wind, and her eyes sparkle. At him. She doesn’t see him as a brother; he is her boyfriend.

  I still see Loukas’s triumphant smirk in my mind, as he cups Angeliki’s face and tilts her head so he can press his lips to hers.

  Still see it while I stride back to House 1, hoping against hope that no one will see my eyes welling up with tears. It’s not just that there’s something between her and Loukas. It’s that she lied to me about how the swing broke. Was it to spare my feelings, or to manipulate me into helping?

  What difference does it make? My heart feels torn into shreds, even as my blood pumps hard in my temples.

  I won’t cry. Worse things have happened in my life. This won’t break me. Nothing will. Her betrayal doesn’t make me sad; it makes me angry.

  Anger makes me stronger.

  And the wetness on my eyelids and cheeks is infuriating.

  I’ve reached the stairs, when a man’s voice comes from behind me. “Seems like we’re right on time.”

  I wipe my eyes on the back of my hand and swivel to see a white-haired man, in a suit like business men wear in movies. His right hand rests on the shoulder of a boy about my age, with hair as dark as mine but eyes the blue-green of the sea. The boy has chiseled cheekbones, like Loukas’s. I want to take my fist to them, but when he smiles, my anger melts away.

  “We’ve come to take you home, Hephaestus,” the man says, “and something tells me you want to leave this place.”

  I do. So much so, I don’t ask who he is, how he knows my name, or what he means by home. I don’t slap his touch away or move out of reach when he places his free hand on my arm.

  And when he promises love won’t break my heart again, I believe him.

  Even though it’s a lie.

  Chapter One – Hephaestus

  WHY IS IT SO FUCKING hot in here? It’s October, for fuck’s sake. Is fall snubbing us this year? I may be the god of fire, but I still don’t appreciate the sweating. Gimme some rain, damn it!

  I undo the clasps of my overalls and let the top part droop around my waist, so I can remove my T-shirt.

  Ah, that’s better.

  I ball up the shirt and toss it in the general direction of my couch. You’d expect a god—even an unascended one—not to miss a whole
couch, but the T-shirt flies past it, to land on the floor. Leave it. I am a fervent believer in body spray, but it doesn’t mask the smell of grease or gasoline. Plus, I have been working in the sun all morning, so that thing needs to be washed anyway.

  I rub my scalp with my palm. It feels odd, touching bare skin after having long hair for the past decade, but it also feels more like me. Couldn’t pull off the long tresses as well as rest of the Olympioses do.

  The ceiling fan above twirls lazily, barely stirring the air around. I know for a fact that, without an extra boost, it will do nothing to cool the garage or lift my mood, but I still switch it on High before dropping into my beloved, ergonomic desk chair, with a can of beer in my hand. I should eat something, but the upstairs kitchen might as well be a kilometer away, and I don’t feel like the gourmet sandwich I put together this morning. I don’t feel like anything, other than sitting here and wallowing. Much like I’ve done most of the past week.

  Can you blame me, though? For years, I’ve told myself that my parents were forced to abandon me. That the Japanese puzzle box they left with me holds the details of a secret meeting point. That they’ve always wanted me back. C’s revelation last week boosted my hope that this was the case. Maybe they didn’t ditch me, but tried to keep me safe from Nyx. Like Ares’ parents did for him.

  Then C went and said that thing about some parents being unable to deal with gifted children, and my hope was extinguished. Why would they want me? Nobody else has, except for my brothers, and they’re conditioned to care for me. It’s how C raised us—love and support each other, no matter what.

  Odds are my parents were relieved to leave me, and the box holds no secret. Maybe it was a favorite toy they didn’t want to take away. Though they had no trouble taking away their love. Assuming they ever loved me.

  Fuck. Good thing Ares isn’t here. He’d have a field day, mocking my self-pity.

  They all would. Even Sei, who’s been my big bro since he and C came for me, knows I’m not the same as them. I’m the odd one out—my skin is bronze, not golden; my face isn’t all ethereal angles; and my body is built, rather than sculpted. Even though no two of us are related by blood, the rest of them look like a family. Someone else’s family.

  I take a swig of my beer. I need more than a couple kegs of the stuff to even get a semi-proper buzz, but I’m willing to chip at soberness one can at a time. My auto repair shop is closed for the day, and I have no plans for my afternoon.

  Except, that’s a lie. I have the same plan I have most afternoons—try to open the fucking puzzle box. Not because I believe it holds a cryptic message. Not anymore. Now, it’s a matter of pride. Because that blasted box is the only thing I haven’t been able to figure out since I remember myself.

  Even as I sip my beer, I reach for it. Press each square centimeter with my fingers. Trace every line and curve carved into its surface. Focus on the wood it was made out of. It’s warm, and for a heart-stopping moment, it thrums under my touch, but nothing happens.

  Nothing. Again.

  Frustrated, I put it aside and cup my beer with both hands.

  It usually takes me no more than a couple of looks, maybe a touch, to see into the core of things and recognize how they work.

  Which doesn’t explain why I just stare at the shop phone when it rings, as if I’ve no clue why on earth it makes this sound. But really, I don’t. Nobody should be calling. It’s four in the afternoon on a Wednesday. I don’t work on Wednesday afternoons, and my brothers never call the land line, if they even bother with a phone instead of our mental connection that’s only grown stronger lately.

  Not gonna answer. Must be for a survey or something. If it’s not, they’ll leave a message.

  My beer’s gone lukewarm, so I finish it off. I’ve grabbed a second can from the mini-fridge, when another sound registers.

  No, there are two distinct sounds—a honking and a rattling. Someone’s banging on my garage door. And of course the land line starts ringing again. And there’s the beep of a text from my cell phone. Because why should people leave me be?

  I ignore both phones and head toward the banging. Popping open the sweating can of beer with one hand, I press my other palm on the button mounted on the wall that opens the garage door. While the door slides up, I stand and wait, ready to glower to death the dudebro interrupting my brood-filled siesta.

  Only, these red ankle-boots don’t belong to a dude or a bro, and neither do the slim, tanned calves the rising door reveals. Or the tattoo on the left thigh, peeking from beneath the frayed denim that hugs the curved hips and narrow waist I see next. By the time the neckline of the off-the-shoulder top appears, the honking has mercifully ceased, though there’s a buzzing in my head.

  A buzzing that says I’ll know the face atop the slender neck.

  Fuck.

  “It was about damn time,” the woman says in heavily accented English, shaking a cell phone at me. “Why don’t you answer your phone? Don’t you want business?” She’s Italian. And my supposed soulmate, according to C’s research.

  She takes me in, and an eyebrow peeks above her dark shades. Hooking one thumb on a belt loop, she gives me a slow, dangerous smile. “Cavalo! You were worth the wait.”

  “I was closed for the day.” Did you know it’s painful to talk with a clenched jaw?

  She dismisses my explanation with a wave and slips her phone in the back pocket of her cutoffs.

  I force myself to tear my gaze away from her delicate features and full lips, and check out the minibus behind her. Two more tall, slim, impossibly beautiful women climb out, and a third one waves at me from behind the wheel.

  “We have a problem,” the international top model in front of me says. And the descriptor isn’t an exaggeration. Laura Fuoco Rossi has been every designer’s favorite for the past eighteen months, her face and body plastered everywhere. She’s what Vogue called a phenomenal victory for the modern woman, in that she went from being an influencer to dominating catwalks at twenty eight, when most careers in the field are over, and did so without changing her edgy look into something more mainstream.

  All of that is the reason I’m pretty sure C’s info is wrong. This stunner of a woman cannot be meant for me.

  She pushes her sunglasses up into her spiky, purple hair and pins me with eyes darker than mine. The sun makes the studs in her ears and nose spark, and glints on the large golden hoop earrings that sway when she slowly tilts her head. “If you are done with that”—wearing another of those smiles I should be running away from, she points at the beer in my hand—“can you see what’s wrong with our rental car?” Her voice is a throaty caress.

  I’m drawn to her. Beyond reason, beyond my understanding—and I understand everything—I want to close the distance between us and kiss her. Bind us together. Complete the job that fate started.

  But that’s irrational, and I don’t do irrational. I’m not a brute, and I won’t force her or any female into my eternity just so I can ascend.

  The need to bond nags at me. C warned us that the bonding would speed up for Hades and me now that the others have regained their powers.

  Which means I need to get her out of here, and the fastest way to do that is by fixing her car.

  I bring the can to my mouth and polish it off, before approaching the vehicle. The hood radiates heat. Heat doesn’t affect me, but letting mortals see me handle scalding hot machinery may not be the best idea.

  “Pop the hood,” I call out. When nothing happens after a heartbeat, I turn to Laura. “Does your driver speak English?”

  Only, Laura is much closer than before. A mere step away, and looking up at me through long, dark eyelashes. “I think the alternator failed and drained the battery.”

  Huh. That’s not a sentence I expected to hear from her. “You know your way around cars.” I’m impressed.

  Her expression falters for a moment, and then she lets out a less-than-genuine giggle and bats her eyelashes. “Cars? Me? No. I remember
the same thing happening to my father’s Fiat a couple years ago. That’s all.”

  She sounds like my suggestion was preposterous, but her denial feels fake.

  And that’s not my riddle to decipher. “The hood?” I point, for emphasis.

  It may be me, but Laura seems relieved for the split second before she calls for the women in the minibus to do as I asked. In Italian. Which moments ago I didn’t know I understood.

  Hood’s popped, and I get under it. Laura ducks closer. Too close. Which of course wouldn’t be an issue if she weren’t blocking the light. Or didn’t smell this good. How did I not notice her proximity before? Her perfume is light—a touch of flowers and a hint of fruit—but it fills my senses. She nudges my shoulder with her bare one, and the skin-on-skin contact makes my whole arm tingle.

  “Well? Am I right?” she asks

  She is, and I don’t believe it’s a fluke. She knew what she was walking about. Does she also know I’m not supposed to recognize the problem by sight alone? “Tell your friend to turn on the radio,” I tell her.

  “Won’t that drain the battery more?” A frown whispers across her face, and then she’s all sunshine again. “That’s what I’ve heard, at least.”

  Why is she pretending not to know these things? “If she turns it to the AM and finds a blank frequency, we can tell whether it’s the alternator or the battery.”

  Her black eyes spark with interest, and she passes my instructions along. “What will help us differentiate between the two?” she asks in that throaty voice that’s meant for seductive promises.

  Promises I shouldn’t be thinking of. “Does she hear a whine when she turns the key in the ignition?” Of course she does; it’s the alternator. I can tell, the moment I touch the starter engine.

  Laura tells the driver to try starting the minibus and asks, “Senti un lamento?”

  “Si.” The driver’s voice oozes excitement.

  The car doesn’t start, as I knew it wouldn’t. It will, as soon as I work my magic on it, but I can’t do so discreetly, with Laura looking over my shoulder.