Fates and Furies (The Sphinx Book 4)

by Raye Wagner

  Athan closed his eyes. “I’ll make it right.”

  Guilt weighed seven thousand tons, and when it settled, there was no way to avoid it. Hope had spent the first hour at the hospital with Athan, but Xan convinced her to go home and get cleaned up while he waited for the physician to read the X-rays. She didn’t want to leave, but Xan practically pushed her out the door. He had something to say to Athan and didn’t want Hope around to hear. Something told her it was better that she didn’t.

  Xan was jealous of Athan, and it was obvious when Hope cuddled up to Athan during a movie or gave him a kiss before leaving for a run. But Hope couldn’t change her feelings either. And it wasn’t that she didn’t love Xan. She did but not that way.

  If she had to choose . . . Gods, she didn’t want to have to choose.

  The door opened, and the two men she loved most crossed the threshold side by side. Athan had his arm around Xan’s shoulders, and Xan had his arm around Athan’s waist. Both men were smiling, and Athan winked at her as Xan helped him settle onto the couch.

  Crossing back to the entryway, Xan announced, “I’m going to grab dinner. Be back in fifty.”

  He nodded at Athan before closing the door on the way out.

  Something was up, but the puzzle fled her mind as she perched on the edge of the couch next to Athan. Her fear and concern welled, and she struggled to get the words out. “I’m so sorry.”

  She darted a glance at him, worried she would see only reproach, but his gaze was filled with love.

  Shaking his head, he waved her closer. “No, I’m sorry. I let my pride cloud my judgment. Xan was right, but I wouldn’t hear it. That’s my bad, not yours. It’s only a couple cracked ribs, nothing life altering. I’ll be fine in a week or so.”

  Hope swallowed the emotional lump at the back of her throat, again and again. “I shouldn’t have kicked you—”

  “No.” Athan held his hand out to stop her. “You should’ve. In fact, you should be practicing like that every single day. Remember, it’s my fault I didn’t block.”

  She hiccupped and then laughed. Tears had escaped, and Hope brushed away the evidence of her guilt. “We both know that isn’t exactly true.”

  Athan shrugged and then, leaning toward her, grabbed her sleeve and pulled. “I worry you’ll wake up one day and realize how much better you could do than me.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but his next words took her breath away.

  “That’s my insecurity, and it has nothing to do with you or how you treat me. You are beautiful, kind, and faithful. I love you.”

  Hope scooted closer, and nestling up to Athan, she rested her head on his shoulder. “I love you, too.”

  Athan shifted and put his arm around her. “I know, so I want you to hear me out. Xan is better than I am at fighting. He’s a better trainer. And he’s had a lot more experience with the bad side of the Olympians. He loves you, and he’ll take care of you.”

  It sounded like Athan was saying goodbye, and Hope pulled away as panic seized her. “What are you saying? Are you leaving?”

  Even with the shake of his head, Hope’s anxiety didn’t dissipate. She could see the resignation in the weary lines of his face and the slump of his shoulders.

  “I’m not going anywhere. You are.” He tapped her shoulder with his fingertips. “And when you leave, know that Xan has your back. He will always have your back. If something happens, we both want you to be happy.”

  They were meant to be words of comfort, but there was too much pain behind the possibilities. Something was bound to happen; Hope just couldn’t predict what it was. She snuggled in closer and rested her head on Athan’s chest. Lulled by the steady beating of his heart, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax.

  But the sound of the door clicking shut roused Hope from sleep. Xan walked past, and the crinkle of plastic was followed by the rich smell of garlic and tomato sauce wafting from the kitchen. She sat up but left Athan asleep sprawled out on the couch.

  Xan pulled out paper plates from the painted white kitchen cabinets and handed one to Hope. “Are you going to wake him?”

  She shook her head. “I think he needs his sleep. Don’t mortals need more sleep after an injury like that?” Hadn’t she read something about it in her grandmother Phaidra’s history? “Just don’t eat it all this time, all right?”

  Xan smirked. “Says the lady who ate an entire tray of lasagna.”

  Hope’s stomach tied itself in knots, and she set her empty plate on the counter. She wanted to dish up, sit at the table, and laugh with Xan while Athan slept. But this conversation was long overdue. “You know I love you, right?”

  Xan flinched as if she’d struck him. Releasing a slow breath, he ran his hand through his hair. “Aye, lass. I know what you’re going to say, and it’s clear as a bell. You love him more.”

  She wanted to deny it, but she wouldn’t lie to him. “I love him differently. You’re like my best friend, and I don’t want to lose that. But I don’t want to be selfish either. You don’t have to come to Olympus . . . .”

  When Xan met her gaze, his icy-blue depths were stormy with emotion. He set his plate on the counter and pulled Hope into a hug. “I know how you feel, and I respect your choice. The heart is not ruled, not yours and not mine. I’m sorry, lass, if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

  Hope shook her head. He’d been clear with his intention, but Xan had never pushed her for more than she was willing to give in their relationship. “You haven’t,” she said, tilting her head to look up at him. “Not at all.”

  He kissed her forehead and then released her. “Then please don’t ask me not to come. We all know you can’t do this alone. And even if you could, I want to come. I want to be there just in case, on the off-chance, you do need me.”

  Hope nodded. Her guilt waned, and gratitude rushed in to fill the gap. “Thank you.”

  Xan smirked, and this time, his dimple popped. “Now, let’s eat afore your fella wakes up. I hear mortals will eat more when they’re injured, too. I think I got plenty, but I don’t want to share the veal Parmesan.”

  Four weeks later, Athan was cleared to resume his normal activities. For four weeks, he’d watched Hope and Xan leave and come back. Initially, their excursions were all for training. Then Hope went to visit Priska, and after she got back, Hope and Xan started visiting temples of the gods every morning.

  Athan finally put it all together. To get to Olympus, they would need access. The conservatories were closed to Hope, so they couldn’t get in through the Olympian Library, which left only a portal created by one of the gods who resided there. Hence, they were visiting the temples to find a god or goddess who might be willing to help.

  Maybe Athan could help Hope, after all.

  He stood in front of his dresser and pulled the soft, gray T-shirt over his head, his chest still tight from the broken ribs. He told Hope they didn’t hurt, and mostly they didn’t at this point, but broken bones that lasted longer than a few minutes were more than the trite irritation they once were. Mortality was not to be trifled with, and even now, the constant reminders chafed.

  After slipping his arms into the sleeves, he rummaged through the drawer until he found two matching socks and then finished getting dressed. Glancing at the clock, he swore under his breath. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late. He’d stopped by and left a request two days ago with Thomas, his father’s high priest, and Athan had an appointment at precisely ten thirty. He’d never made an appointment in the past, but this meeting was so important. He wanted to show his father every respect. Maybe it would help.

  Three months after getting back to the mortal realm from the Underworld, Hermes was still in a mood. The god of communication, travel, thieves, and liars was either unable or unwilling to mask his displeasure from his son. Not that he was upset with Athan. Hermes made it abundantly clear at every visit that he did not hold his son responsible for his loss of demigod status. Far worse, Hermes held Hope responsible
. No matter how many times Athan reassured his father that he’d gone to the Underworld willingly, Hermes viewed Hope as a monster, and he blamed her for Athan’s sacrifice. At least that had been the case a month ago. Athan had been afraid to visit while his ribs were broken.

  Athan shoved his frustration and dark apprehension to the back corner of his mind, focusing on what he would need to accomplish today. He’d need to channel more graciousness and his arguments would need to be compelling if he had any chance of success.

  “Athan?” Hope’s muted voice came from behind his door.

  Thoughts of his father fled, and Athan’s heart swelled with love. He’d consider himself lucky every single day he got to hear her voice. He’d had lots of time to reflect over the last several weeks, and he’d thought about his time in the Underworld and what he could’ve done differently. Yet, when he circled back to the heartache he’d felt when he thought he’d never hear her voice again, when he really believed he would be bound to Hades and his realm, Athan never once regretted his decision. Even that would’ve been worth the sacrifice. Hope deserved better, and he would do everything in his power to see her free from Apollo’s curse. Athan frowned at his reflection in the mirror. After four weeks of limited activity, his already thin frame bordered on skinny, and whatever power he’d once had seemed to be so much less. “Be out in a sec.”

  He took a deep breath, setting his intention. If Hermes would help Hope, Athan would consider it a victory on so many levels. He’d have to be persuasive. He needed this. She needed this. And if everything fell apart for him, he would do everything he could to give her the best chance at success. With grim determination, the son of Hermes grabbed his immortal blades, slid them into their sheaths, and crossed the room. Opening his bedroom door, he studied the girl who held his heart.

  Hope stood at the threshold, smiling up at him. “You said to come get you at ten if you weren’t out.”

  His anxiety melted away, and he brushed her cheek with a kiss. “Thank you.”

  Her blond hair was pulled up in a messy knot, and her ears tinged pink as her blush spread. He would never tire of watching her respond to him. She was simply beautiful with an ethereal golden glow. “You are lovely this morning.”

  She glanced down, and he followed her gaze. She was wearing a tank top and shorts, and the salt on his lips told him she’d only recently finished her run.

  Mortality stung him again. The brief runs they’d taken together in Goldendale were only a memory, probably never to be repeated. Hope now exercised with Xan, trained with Xan, and often cooked with Xan. Quite simply, Athan couldn’t keep up. And yet, she loved him anyway.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head in protest. “I’m a sweaty mess.”

  He licked the salt from his lips and, leaning over her, whispered in her ear, “You’re a hot mess.”

  The sound of water from Xan’s room indicated that the son of Ares was in the shower. Which was perfect.

  Athan kissed her ear then trailed kisses down her neck. She tilted her head, giving him better access, and he pressed her against the wall with a groan. She pushed her fingers through his hair and then pulled him closer as she turned to meet his lips.

  Their lips brushed once, twice, and then Hope pulled away.

  “What time do you need to be there?” she asked, her breathy question barely decipherable.

  But decipherable enough. The passion waned with the reminder of his pending appointment with Hermes. Athan’s shoulders sagged in defeat, and touching his forehead to hers, he replied, “In twenty minutes.”

  The temple was only ten minutes away, but he would need to park, talk with the priest, and go through the motions of making an offering. He grimaced as he thought of all the potential unknowns.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Hope asked, and then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed the corner of his mouth.

  What was left of the kindling desire completely disappeared as if water had been dumped on a fledgling fire. Athan chewed on his lip as he tried to find words that wouldn’t hurt.

  “Or is your father still upset with me?”

  If Hermes was still holding a grudge, upset would be a mild way of expressing the god’s feelings.

  Athan chuckled sheepishly and dodged a direct answer. “I’m not sure of his frame of mind today, but the last time we spoke, he was still unhappy. I don’t think it would be a wise risk. Regardless of how much I want you there.”

  The light in her eyes dimmed, but she acquiesced gracefully with a grim smile. “It’s probably better that we don’t do anything to make it worse.” She sagged into him. “Maybe you shouldn’t ask him for help. We can find another way.”

  But the only way to get to Olympus was by invitation of a god. And so far, they’d only been met with refusals. They were running out of options. He stared at the bland beige wall above Hope’s head, and when he spoke, the words were more hopeful than reassuring. “He’s still my father.”

  “You’ll be careful though, right?” Hope admonished him. The muscles in her neck and shoulders were tight, and her wide eyes were filled with apprehension.

  Athan pulled her close and buried his face in her hair. She smelled of sunshine and lavender. She was his, and he would do whatever it took to free her from the gods and their games. “I’m always careful. It’s my middle name.”

  Hope exhaled, a forced breath that was only slightly more polite than a derisive snort. She pulled back just far enough to look him in the eye. “I’m being serious.” She rested her palm against his cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

  She was mirroring his own fear, but she didn’t need to hear that. He grabbed her hand and pulled it down to kiss her palm. What she was attempting to do was the biggest kind of risk. To thwart the gods was almost unheard of. The likelihood of success was slim, and the chance of them all being alive in the end was even slimmer. “You’re a survivor, Hope. You’d find a way.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t say that.” Her voice cracked, and her hand trembled. “I just want—”

  He put his fingers to her lips to halt the words that had been rehashed so many times he could’ve said them verbatim. “I know, and it will be okay.”

  The shower shut off in the other room, and while the three-bedroom apartment was just big enough that one couldn’t hear everything—or rather Athan couldn’t hear everything—Hope and Xan probably could.

  Athan brushed his lips over hers in a brief kiss and backed away. Hope clung to him, and he grabbed her hands and unwound himself. “I’ve got to go, but I want you to have these.” He pulled out his blades and held them out to her. “Just in case.”

  Hope froze and panic pulsed from her frame. “What if you need them?”

  “They won’t do me a bit of good at my father’s temple.” He pushed them into her hands. “Wish me luck.”

  Hope stood in the hallway, the incandescent bulbs creating a halo around her golden hair. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and her gaze followed him.

  He couldn’t wait any longer, and even if he could, time wouldn’t make the departure any easier. He grabbed his keys off the kitchen table on his way out, and as he opened the door to leave, he heard her say, “Good luck.”

  He took a deep breath, forced his lips into a smile, and waved.

  They both knew he would need it.

  The drive to the temple of Hermes was all back roads through middle-income neighborhoods. The bushy pines and tall conifers swayed in the wind. The overcast sky was heavy with moisture, and the cool air smelled of rain and evergreens.

  Athan kept the radio off, his mind churning through possible ways to approach his father, but the requests for help all centered on his love for Hope, the one person his father could not stand. To say Hermes hated her would be ridiculous. He didn’t even know her. Athan couldn’t understand why his dad would be so vehemently opposed to the girl who had saved his son’s life. The facts didn’t add u
p.

  Not that facts had anything to do with emotions.

  Athan pulled into the long drive of his father’s opulent shrine. The asphalt changed to stained concrete, and boxwood hedges formed a solid wall all the way up to the valet. A young priest, serving as an attendant, ran out from a small hut as Athan pulled into the drive.

  “Good morning, sir,” the priest said, nodding at Athan as he accepted his keys. The young man couldn’t have been more than eighteen and, unlike at other temples, wore street clothes, not a traditional Greek chiton. Before ducking into the car, he pointed at the temple. “If you let one of the priests know when you’re ready, I’ll bring the car around. They can shoot me a text, ’kay?”

  Athan nodded at the attendant and turned toward his father’s temple. It was built like the temples of old, with tall pillars of stone surrounding the exterior of the building. The courtyard was filled with plants, and the azaleas and rhododendrons were in bloom. Rosy reds, pale pinks, and bright white clusters of blooms complemented the rich greenery. Statues of Hermes and various mythical creatures danced, sang, and played in the lush garden.

  With a determined breath, Athan set his shoulders and ran up the marble steps to the sanctuary. He pulled open the tinted glass door, and a welcoming warmth billowed out and pulled him in.

  The heavy smell of jasmine permeated the air, and rich tapestries hung from the walls. The jeweled designs were woven in intricate patterns and vibrant scenes of Hermes’s life, which added a physical presence of the luxury and wealth of the god.

  How had Athan not noticed the pretentiousness before? He stared at the glittering blown-glass lyre. The inlaid gems twinkled under the incandescent light, but the wealth was a mockery of what mattered most. Shame at his previous obliviousness settled heavily in his gut and refused to be dismissed. Athan had never known any different, and his entitlement stared back at him in the meaningless wealth that now surrounded him. Not until he’d seen the barrenness of Hope’s home in Goldendale did he even know the excess of his life, and those like him. But it was that same minimalism that allowed him to discover what he really believed, both about himself and the people around him. How many other demigods suffered under the same delusions of superior grandeur?