by Wagner, Raye
“Who is he?” Why was he here? And how could her mother have gone from loving Paul a year ago to loving a son of Apollo?
“Your father.”
She absorbed the words as if they were a sucker punch. Her muscles twitched, and her jaw went slack. There were no words. And then just as quickly something akin to relief burst through her. “The curse.”
Leto only offered a wan smile. “I promise you’ll be safe. Just, please, come inside and let him talk to you.”
Holy crap. Holy crap! Leto had married a son of Apollo?
Hope moved as if in a daze. Her mother guided her through the door and then into a small parlor off the entryway.
“Stay here and let me get Luc.”
Luc? “I thought my dad’s name was Symeon.”
Her mother turned to face her and gave her a watery smile. “Symeon is his middle name.”
Hope studied the room. This wasn’t like the homes she’d been used to. The apartments they’d lived in were barren, void of adornment. This room had pictures of Hope at every stage of growth, from infant to . . . was that from last year in Goldendale? A beautiful sunset hung over the mantle of a fireplace that held several logs, as if waiting for a match to bring life to a cheery blaze. The end tables held more frames, and Hope looked at pictures of her mother as a child, and then . . . was that her grandfather and grandmother? Undoubtedly, the women of the family shared a strong resemblance, but their own uniqueness, as well.
Hope was looking at a small figurine of a Sphinx when she heard two sets of footsteps in the hall. She set the small ceramic down and turned to face her mother and father.
Leto reappeared holding the hand of the beautiful Luc Symeon Nicholas.
To his credit, he appeared every bit as shocked as Hope felt. His turquoise eyes were cloudy with emotion, and his hands trembled as he reached out to touch her.
Hope withdrew a pace. The man was a complete stranger, and he wanted to hug her? Hot anger surged through her, and she put up her hands as if to block any further approach. “I don’t know you.”
“I’m so sorry.” He pointed to an upholstered loveseat, indicating that she sit. He then grabbed a chair from the other side of the room. “You’re right.”
Hope perched on the edge of the small couch, her knees angled toward the doorway, her hands clenched into fists. She had no idea what he would say. What could he say? There was no excuse for his abandonment.
Luc offered the seat to Leto, who looked back and forth between her husband and her daughter.
Hope didn’t want to care where her mom sat. But if she sat next to him . . . It would be like she was siding with him. The fear that her mother would choose a son of Apollo over Hope made her chest hollow with hurt. The ache lessened when her mom sat down, scooping up Hope’s hand and giving her a gentle squeeze.
But then Leto smiled at her husband, as if an apology to Luc. Hope wanted to scream but withdrew her hands from her mom, clenching them so tight nails dug into her palms; a physical release of her emotional tension.
With a deep breath, Luc stood and began pacing the small room. “Growing up with Apollo as a father was tumultuous. He was not patient. He expected his sons to excel and pushed me to pursue my interests in music and art. He also stressed the importance of self-defense and had me train with one of the sons of Ares as well as several other demigods. Eventually, demigods are expected to spend some time in service at one of our conservatories.”
Hope gritted her teeth. “I know. I’ve been there.”
Leto gasped, and Luc’s eyes widened. “Did you get in?”
“Yes.” Hope filled them in on the briefest of details of her time in the conservatory, keeping it to the deception of her mother’s identity, the hunt for information in the library, and the supposition that Hades’s realm was next. Both were so intent on her words, but she didn’t understand why Luc was pretending to care.
“Astonishing,” Luc said.
Leto beamed with pride and grabbed Hope’s hand again.
This time, Hope let her mom hold it but leveled her gaze at her father. “Go ahead with your story. I’ve wanted to hear this my whole life.”
Luc paused in his pacing and offered her a tight smile. “I understand you’re upset. But, I promise, I didn’t leave you on purpose.”
Hope said nothing. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying it was okay. It was most definitely not okay, but she would let him tell his side. She set the bar low, knowing it wouldn’t be good.
“I was training to be psachno , and I was given a final test to see if I was ready. The goal was to find a demigod and bring him in.” Luc sighed and squeezed in next to Leto. “I rented an apartment on Mercer Island.”
“And you needed to go to the grocery store,” Leto started and then laughed. She reached out and grabbed Symeon’s hand, and the demigod scooted closer to his wife. “Do you remember?”
He nodded, his golden hair flopping over his eye, and he brushed the lock out of his face. “Of course I remember, love. It was on a Tuesday—”
“It was a Monday.” She laughed again.
Hope stared at the two of them, her face pinching into a scowl. Anger and wonder warred in her heart. How could her mother not be upset? Not only was she not upset, they looked in love. Luc and Leto looked barely older than Hope, and it was the strangest sense of déjà vu, as if talking to Haley and Tristan. Hope could hardly believe . . .
“I know it was a Monday because I went to see Priska at Mr. Davenport’s office every Monday afternoon, and that was the only time I went to that store.”
Symeon pursed his lips and then nodded again. “Right. On a Monday. I remember it well.”
Hope immediately caught the reference to the old movie her mother loved. They’d spent many nights watching the classic musical. Her mother’s tears made a little more sense now.
“So . . .” Hope urged the tale to continue.
Luc stared at his wife, adoration in his eyes. “Why don’t you tell it, Leto?”
Hope shook her head. She didn’t need her mother to tell her how she and Luc had met. She’d heard that story dozens of times. “I don’t care how you met. I know that. I want to know what happened. Why did you leave? If you loved her so much, why did you take off? Why didn’t you come back? How did you end up here?”
Understanding dawned, and Luc’s features went from light to dark. “You are here to break the curse.”
Spine-tingling chills crawled over her skin despite the warm, humid air, and her anger dissolved into dread.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He leaned toward her, and Hope inched forward to meet him.
“He will do everything he can to stop you,” he whispered.
Even with her keen hearing, she had to strain to make out the words. But this wasn’t anything she didn’t already know. Apollo’s ruthlessness had been demonstrated when he’d killed his own sons in her bedroom.
“Why are you whispering?” Hope asked. It made no sense. Luc was dead. How could he still fear Apollo, a god from Olympus?
Luc turned to look behind him. “He has eyes everywhere.”
Gods, he was paranoid. She started to wonder if her father was not right in the head. Her mom wouldn’t have fallen for just a pretty face, right?
“Have you read Phaidra’s history, Hope?” Leto asked, still holding Luc’s hand.
Hope nodded. She’d spent all those hours in the apartment with Priska, reading her grandmother’s history.
“What does Phaidra’s story have to do with Symeon?” She waved her hands as her irritation mounted. It was going to take some time to get used to his other name. “I mean Luc.” She couldn’t bring herself to call him Dad .
“Do you remember when she met Khafre?”
Hope ran through the stories in her mind. Khafre, pharaoh of Egypt, responsible for killing his brother Djedefre to ascend the throne. He’d had Phaidra kidnapped and tried to marry her. He’d promised her it would fulfill the cur
se because . . .
Hope shuddered. She closed her eyes and rubbed them with the palms of her hands. This was insanity. But her anger had dissipated, and she said, “Tell me.”
Athan studied the gems running in veins in the black rock of the Underworld. Red, green, blue, and white streaked the dark walls, glimmering in the light. Something deep within told him to watch his manners, but this was ridiculous. He narrowed his eyes and wondered what Hecate could want with him and his companions. “Where are Xan and Dahlia?”
A crease formed between the goddess’s eyes, and she frowned. “How are you feeling? All better?”
Now that she mentioned it, he was feeling better, except for the irritation with her inane questions. The despair he’d swallowed from the river was gone, and the bite on his leg no longer ached. He leaned away from her. Why would she have healed him?
“Do you think your father would like it that you’re healed?”
Was this about his father? He scrubbed his hand over his face. Of course it was.
“I’m sure he would be pleased, yes?” She stood. Reaching out, she grabbed the arm of the young man closest to her. With her thumb, she smeared the design covering his bicep. “Savon, Henri, you will stay here.” Her gaze landed on the priestess who’d escorted Athan. “Evelyn.”
The girl blushed and averted her gaze. Had she been staring at the boys?
“You are dismissed.” Hecate shooed the girl away as if swatting a fly. Then the goddess turned her attention back to Athan. “Good help is so hard to come by.”
Was she baiting him? He shrugged.
“You smell like death. Were you bathing in the Acheron?” She didn’t wait for his answer but continued talking as she led him from the dais. “Those other two that were with you are from War and Chaos, correct? Are they smart? I wouldn’t imagine they could be too smart to have followed you here.”
They entered a small chamber outside the auditorium.
“You may get dressed there.” She pointed to a screen inside the doorway, the same black fabric and gold rods as the cot in the room.
He stepped behind it to find his pack sitting on a stone bench, as well as the clothes he’d been wearing when the Skia attacked. His immortal blades were in their sheaths next to his boots. Everything was clean, as if the fight had never happened. As if the dust, dirt, and grime of their travel had never existed. As if Hecate hadn’t blasted him in the stomach and burned a hole in his shirt. As if.
He stepped out from behind the screen.
The goddess bit the side of her mouth as she studied him. “Thanatos is behind the Skia who attacked you. Both here and in the mortal realm.”
His stomach churned. “Why?”
She shrugged, and the strap of her chiton slid off her freckled shoulder. She grabbed the golden clasp and pulled it back up as she led him back to the larger room. “He’s a god. You’re threatening what he wants.”
What would the god of death want with Hope?
Athan followed the goddess of crossroads and magic.
“Get the hell off me!” Xan burst into the room, shirtless, his wrists and ankles in manacles. He stumbled to the floor. With a deep breath, he pulled himself up, flinching as he stood on the uneven ground in bare feet. One of the girls reached for him, but he shifted out of her reach and glared at her. “Don’t touch me.”
Flanking him were two young women dressed in fitted black clothes, their hair pulled back in sleek braids. Their faces were free of makeup, but their expressions were bold and fearless.
“The son of Ares,” one intoned.
These women wore utility belts with bulging pockets, and blades of various lengths were attached. Several more weapons were strapped to their thighs.
Hecate disappeared and reappeared in front of Xan. She clenched his chin and pulled his face down close to hers, her painted nails digging into his skin. “You bring no value to me, so watch your manners.”
Xan clenched his teeth.
“What do you want with us?” Athan ground out.
Hecate released Xan’s jaw, leaving nail marks on his chin. She faced Athan with a gleam in her eyes. “Not both of you.” She sauntered over to Athan and rested her finger on his chest. “Just you.”
She walked around Athan, her finger trailing over his chest around to the back and returning to his chest. “Do you have your phone?”
Athan nodded. He knew this was about Hermes as soon as the goddess had asked if his father would be pleased.
“Call him.”
He reached into his pocket, wishing his phone would be like most cell phones. Mortal phones wouldn’t work in the Underworld. But of course, his screen lit up. He sent a text.
Athan hadn’t even exhaled his breath and his father was standing beside him.
Hermes’s tousled hair was the exact same shade of bronze as his son’s. The two were the same height, with the same runner’s build. But Hermes’s hazel eyes blazed with anger, and he towered over the goddess. “Hecate.”
The redheaded goddess smirked up at the god of travelers. “I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would, really. Do you care for this one?” She tapped Athan on the chest again.
Hermes pulled the goddess’s hand away from his son and pushed her back several feet. “Do you care for any of your daughters?”
Hecate’s eyes hardened. “It’s not the same.”
Athan looked around the room. The two girls in black still stood on either side of Xan, their bodies tense, hands on their weapons. The other young women continued to mill around the room in their flowing chitons, oblivious to the tension simmering inside the door.
“No, I suppose not.” Hermes blocked Athan from Hecate but also obstructed his view of the goddess. “Do you have anyone here you care for?” The god waved his arms to encompass the room. “Anyone?”
Hecate brushed past them and sauntered back to her dais. She sunk into the cushioned seat and threw her leg over the arm of her chair. The fabric fell away from her pale skin, revealing more golden freckles on her lower extremity.
“I’m willing to bargain with you, Hermes. Since you care for your boy, I’m willing to strike a deal.” Her fingers played with the edges of the sheer fabric.
Athan’s heart grew heavy in his chest. What had he done?
As if answering his question, Hecate turned to him. “You drank from the Acheron. Both you and the girl. You now belong to the Underworld. And I have claimed you.”
“Ridiculous,” Hermes said with a wave of his hand. “Athan—”
“I threw it all up!” He couldn’t contain himself. “Every last drop, every piece of rotten flesh.” He spit on the dark stone floor. “None of it stayed in my body.”
She would not get him. She would not stop him!
Xan’s face was frozen in horror. He shifted as if to step forward, and the guards halted him. “Dahlia,” he breathed.
“I will bargain with you, god of travelers, and messenger to the gods. I will make you a deal.” The goddess of witchcraft smirked at the other god.
“No—”
“I will speak with my son,” Hermes said as he walked from the room.
Athan glared at the goddess and followed his father. As he passed Xan, Athan whispered, “It will be okay.”
But Xan’s expression made it clear he didn’t believe the same.
As soon as Athan was out of the room, Hermes dragged him into the small changing room. In a voice seething with frustration, Hermes asked, “What in the name of Olympus are you doing here?”
Athan opened his mouth to respond, but Hermes didn’t give him the chance. “I can’t believe the insanity that must be running through your head. Do you owe that son of Ares? Is this a dare? Cronus and Rhea, if you are trying to prove—”
“It’s about Hope, Dad.” Athan willed his father to understand.
Hermes’s furrowed brow relaxed, and then his eyes widened. “The Sphinx?”
Athan hated that his father still refused to acknowledge her as
a person. Clenching his teeth, Athan reminded his father, “Her name is Hope.”
Hermes broke eye contact. He adjusted his shirt, tugging the fabric away from his skin, and then leaned against the dark rock wall. “What is she doing in the Underworld?”
“I don’t know.” Athan let out a sigh of frustration. That wasn’t completely true. “She wants to break the curse. For some reason, she came here. Myrine told me.”
Athan filled his father in on what happened since they’d last spoken. How Athan had searched for Hope, only to find her in the conservatory. He told his father about the Skia attack that had put him in a coma, and how Hope had disappeared by the time he woke up. He told all about the tentative truce with Xan and the difficulty they’d had in navigating the Underworld.
As Athan spoke, Hermes’s face hardened into stone. His nostrils flared, and the skin around his eyes tightened. He crossed his arms over his chest and snapped, “You are not meant to be here, son.”
“But I must find her.” It didn’t matter if his father didn’t approve. Athan felt the need to help her, an ache deep in his chest, and he wasn’t going to give up on her. “She saved my life, and I . . . I love her.”
Hermes grunted. “It is not love of which you speak. This infatuation—”
He was done having his father brushing off his feelings. Athan stepped into Hermes’s personal space and with a low growl asked, “Have you not been listening to me? How can you even say that?”
“How long have you known her? A month, maybe two?” Hermes waved his arms dismissively.
Athan ground his teeth. His father was such a hypocrite. “How long did you know Mom?”
Hermes straightened, and his eyes hardened. “That was different.”
“Mom was only nineteen,” Athan whispered. “She said she knew the moment she saw you cross the room.”
Pain crossed over the god’s features and aged his otherwise youthful appearance. The anger washed away, and his shoulders dropped. “What if it isn’t love?”
“A life without risk isn’t worth living, right?” But as Athan said the words, something in his soul resonated with them, and he stood tall, accepting the challenge and all that would come with it. “I have to try.”
