by Jenna Black
“No. Think of something else.”
He sighed dramatically. “We’ve been through this already, Nikki. The person who’s willing to walk away has all the power, and in this scenario, I’m that person.”
“I can’t just give you a human being!”
“Sure you can. If it makes you feel better, you can even ask for his consent before you give him to me. I think under the circumstances, he’ll come willingly, since he’s playing the hero these days.”
He was probably right about that, but no, it didn’t make me feel any better. It was clear that Blake had a lot of conflicting emotions about Cyrus. I’d never asked how long the two of them had been “friends with benefits,” but I had the impression it had been a long time, and that there was plenty of regret and heartache on both sides when it ended. I saw no sign that Blake had any interest in resuming their relationship, but I also saw no sign of the knee-jerk rage that often accompanied a bad breakup.
If I asked Blake to do this, he would do it. Especially now that he and Steph had broken up and he wouldn’t have to worry that he was betraying her. But how could I ask him to do it?
Cyrus leaned forward in his chair, putting his arm on the table and lowering his head in an obvious attempt to regain eye contact. I hadn’t even realized I was staring fixedly at the tabletop until he put himself into my field of vision.
“It’s a fair trade, Nikki,” he said. “It’s not like I’m going to hurt him.”
No, I didn’t think Cyrus had any intention of physically hurting Blake. But the amount of psychological damage he could do . . .
I shuddered. “You might not hurt him, but you can destroy him.”
Cyrus was under the impression that if he had Blake all to himself, he’d be able to win him back over time. But it was clear to me that he couldn’t do that without breaking him, and I just couldn’t allow that to happen. Somehow, I had fallen into Anderson’s shoes, and one of my duties had to be to protect the rest of his Liberi. And Cyrus was right: finding Anderson felt very important to me, but it wasn’t necessarily the key to saving the world, no matter what hopes I might have.
“I might be able to destroy the mask he’s been wearing ever since he left the Olympians,” Cyrus said, “but that’s not the same as destroying him. And before you voice your outrage, let me also point out that it would take considerable time. I’ll be letting you borrow one of my Olympians, so how about if I just borrow Blake as well? I do insist on getting the better end of the deal, so I would like to keep him for three times as long as you keep my Olympian. So if you can track down Anderson in, say, eight hours, I’d get to keep Blake for twenty-four hours. How much damage do you really imagine I can do in that amount of time?”
Putting a time limit on the deal made it feel slightly less morally bankrupt. But I had no idea how long it would take to find Anderson, nor did I know what kind of trouble we might run into in the Underworld. If something were to happen to the Olympian I “borrowed,” I might never be able to get Blake back from Cyrus’s clutches.
“Ask him,” Cyrus urged. “It doesn’t have to be your decision.”
Yes, it did. Unlike Cyrus, Blake definitely had a conscience and a sense of responsibility. If I brought this proposal to him, he’d agree to it, so I was basically making the decision as soon as I decided whether or not to ask him.
Cyrus reached into his back pocket and pulled out a cell phone, laying it on the table in front of him. “I’ll even make it easier than that,” he said. “I’ll ask him. Whether you want me to or not. The fact is that it’s not really your decision to make; it’s his.”
If I didn’t know better, I would swear there was a hint of compassion in Cyrus’s voice, that he was genuinely trying to take the burden of the decision off my shoulders. Blake had told me once that Cyrus was capable of being a nice guy when he wanted to and when it didn’t inconvenience him. I wouldn’t go that far, but I will admit he didn’t go out of his way to be nasty, like many of the Olympians did.
“I’ll ask him,” I said, my voice raspy as I tried not to cry. Maybe Cyrus was right and I could shrug off any responsibility for what I was asking Blake to do—if I were a different person. But, dammit, it was my bright idea to ask Cyrus for help, and if Blake was going to have to pay for it, then I was going to have to live with the guilt. I owed it to Blake and to myself to be brutally honest about it.
How I was going to deal with Steph when I was forced to admit to her what I’d set in motion, I had no idea.
I wasn’t exactly eager to talk to Blake, for more reasons than one, but putting off the conversation wouldn’t make it any easier, so as soon as I got back to the mansion, I marched myself to Blake’s suite. I didn’t give myself time to think about it, just knocked on his door and held my breath. I’m ashamed to say part of me was hoping he wouldn’t be there. Just because my rational mind knew delaying the conversation wouldn’t help anything didn’t make me eager to get on with it.
He answered the door within seconds.
Usually, Blake is what I’d describe as a pretty boy, well dressed and impeccably groomed, with his hair messy in that special, product-laden way that said the look was intentional.
Today, he hadn’t bothered to wash and primp. He wore a simple T-shirt with wash-faded sweats, his cheeks were pebbled with stubble, and his hair was sticking up in ways that had nothing to do with style. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and he smelled of stale booze instead of expensive aftershave.
In other words, he looked terrible. As much as I hated him for breaking Steph’s heart, it was clear to see he had broken his own right along with it, and I surprised myself by feeling sorry for him.
“If you’ve come to give me hell about Steph, please skip it,” he said. “I feel shitty enough already.” His words weren’t slurred, but the scent of alcohol on his breath told me he was still in the process of drowning his sorrows. I wished I could just leave him to it.
“That’s not why I’m here,” I answered.
Blake pushed away from the door, leaving it open in a silent invitation. He didn’t stagger as he made his way to his sitting room sofa, so I presumed that though he wasn’t technically sober, he wasn’t out-of-his-mind drunk, either. That was good, because I’d hate to have this difficult conversation with him only to have to repeat it later because he couldn’t remember.
There was a half-empty bottle of vodka sitting on his coffee table, and I glimpsed an empty one stuffed into a trash can discreetly hidden beneath an end table. Other than that, his sitting room was neat and tidy.
I was about to take a seat when a flash of red caught my eye and I came to a sudden halt. On the opposite side of the sofa from the trash can was a lined wicker basket, and in that was a ball of red yarn with a pair of knitting needles stuck into it. My heart gave an unpleasant squeeze when I saw the lacy red scarf that lay beside the yarn.
I knew that he’d been knitting that scarf for Steph, meaning to give it to her on Valentine’s Day. He’d told me once that he’d taken up the hobby as a rebellion against his father, who had told him that boys don’t knit.
The scarf was obviously finished, and it was beautiful. I didn’t want to know how many hours he had put into knitting it, and I certainly didn’t want to think about the depth of feeling those hours implied.
“Are you all right?” I asked him in the kind of gentle voice I’d use with a trauma victim.
Blake gave me a withering look. “Do I look like I’m all right?”
I winced and shook my head. “I don’t get it. Why on earth would you think it was a good idea to tell Steph about our meeting? I mean, I’m all for honesty and everything, but . . .”
Blake saw me looking at the scarf and gave a little snarl. “You wanted to break us up, didn’t you? Well, your wish came true, so stop complaining.”
Call me oversensitive, but I sensed a bit of hostility being aimed my way. Not that I’d ever been particularly subtle in my disapproval, but I’d done my best to keep my opinion to myself,
and I certainly never tried to break them up.
“I won’t pretend I thought you were good for Steph in the long run,” I said, “but I do know you were taking good care of her after . . . what happened.” In some ways, I wondered if the sexual limitations Blake’s divine ancestor imposed were part of his appeal to Steph. At least she didn’t have to worry about finding a way to be comfortable with sex again anytime soon. And Blake had always been gentle with her psyche in ways that other men might not have been. So the long-term outlook hadn’t seemed too good, but in the short term he might well have been just what the doctor ordered. If he hadn’t gone and screwed it up by opening his big mouth.
“But you were happy when Steph told you it was over, weren’t you?” Blake prodded. “Admit it.”
I remembered Steph’s heartbroken sobs, and it was hard to describe my own emotions as “happy.”
“No, I wasn’t happy that you broke my sister’s heart!” I snapped. “She was comfortable with you, she trusted you. Hell, I’m pretty sure she loved you. And then you had to go and tell her how low you’d be willing to sink, when you had to know how she would feel about it . . .”
My words petered out as I thought about exactly what I was saying. Blake had to have known how badly Steph would take his suggestion. I’ve known plenty of insensitive, clueless men in my time, but Blake wasn’t one of them, especially not where Steph was concerned.
“You did know how she would take it,” I said. “And you said it anyway.”
I couldn’t interpret the look on his face, except that it was hard and closed off. “I’m not a moron,” he said.
“But then why did you do it?” And then I answered my own question. It was clear to anyone with eyes that Blake was miserable, which meant he wasn’t tired of Steph or anxious to break up with her. He’d obviously hurt himself almost as much as he’d hurt Steph, and he’d done it with his eyes wide open.
“You purposely caused her to break up with you,” I said. “You knew how strongly she’d react to what you’d said, and you said it anyway.”
Blake rose to his feet and started to pace restlessly, unable to hold still. “Of course I knew how she’d react. I realized that you’ve been right all along.” The expression on his face was pure agony. “I love her. More than anyone else who’s ever been in my life. And if I love her that much, I can’t risk ruining the rest of her life by tying her to me. Nothing good could come of it, so I decided to end it. But in a way that felt like it was her idea.”
It made a twisted kind of sense, and I almost had to admire the genius of it. Steph was badly hurt now, but she’d probably be even more heartbroken if Blake had initiated the breakup. Making it seem like her idea would eventually help dull her pain, at least in theory. To be perfectly honest, I never would have guessed Blake had it in him. And it made it even harder for me to ask him what I knew I needed to ask him.
“You said you didn’t come here to give me hell about Steph,” Blake said. “So what did you come here for?”
From one unpleasant topic to another in quick succession. I told him about my meeting with Cyrus, watching his face closely the whole time, trying unsuccessfully to read him. He could be a tough man to read when he wanted to be. I was certain he had strong emotions about the subject, but you’d never have guessed it from his studiously neutral expression.
“What do you think?” I asked when a long and uncomfortable silence had settled on us. “Should we take him up on the offer?”
“How can we not?”
“Well, there’s no guarantee that I can find Anderson in the Underworld. I have no idea whether my power will even work there. It’s not like there’s any moonlight to fuel it. And even if I do find him, I’m not sure how much good it will do. If he could fix things himself, I suspect he would have done it by now.”
Blake offered a nonchalant shrug that I didn’t believe for a moment. “If it’s something he can do alone. Maybe he needs help and he’s too much of a lone wolf to ask for it. I mean, it doesn’t sound like Niobe is open to sitting down and having a chat with him to work things out. Hell, I doubt he can even get near her if he doesn’t have some manpower to help him get through her followers.”
“So you’re really willing to do it? Willing to let Cyrus take you?”
Another of those too-casual shrugs. “He won’t hurt me. I’ve done a lot of distasteful things in my life. This will just be one more.”
He was being so stoic and closed off about it, but I knew that wasn’t how he really felt. He had to be tied up in knots. I didn’t think he’d ever been in love with Cyrus—though I suspected the reverse wasn’t true—but there had certainly been genuine friendship between them, and there was still a spark there, visible to anyone. The emotional damage of being forced into Cyrus’s arms might never heal.
“It feels wrong to me,” I said. “Cyrus is right, and it’s your decision to make rather than mine, but . . . no one should have to do what he’s asking you to do.”
The corner of Blake’s mouth tipped up in a smile. “He’s asking me to have sex with him,” he said. “There are a lot worse things that could happen to me in the hands of the Olympians.”
Physically, sure. But being strong-armed into having sex with your ex did not sound like the healthiest thing in the world.
“I’ll be all right, Nikki,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t have the woman I love, but at least I can do something useful. A little meaningless sex is a small price to pay for the chance to find Anderson and fix this mess.”
There was no way in hell he was going to convince me that going with Cyrus would be nothing but “a little meaningless sex” to him. I knew it would be painful and damaging, and I also knew that even though Blake and Steph had broken up, they would both be hurt by it.
Jeez, how was I going to tell Steph about this? She was going to hate me.
“Don’t tell Steph until after it’s too late,” Blake said, reading my mind. “She’s . . . not going to take it well.”
“No shit, really?” I could hardly bear the thought of seeing Steph’s face when she learned about this. Maybe if we found Anderson really quickly and Blake wasn’t missing for too long, I wouldn’t have to tell her at all. But I knew how hard it was to keep secrets, and too many people would know about this one to realistically hope Steph would never know. The only thing worse than hearing it from me would be hearing it from someone else.
“We both love her,” Blake said quietly. “If we tell her about it while there’s still a choice, one or both of us might not be able to go through with it. We can’t let ourselves back out just because we can’t stand to hurt her. It’s too important.”
I wondered if it was possible Steph would ever forgive either one of us for this. But if she didn’t, Blake and I were both going to have to suck it up and deal.
THIRTEEN
My second journey to the Underworld began at Rock Creek Cemetery. It was a cruel irony that we ended up having to hand Blake over to Cyrus on Valentine’s Day of all days.
My plan had been to go to the Underworld alone rather than risk any of my housemates, but I should have known Jamaal would veto that idea.
“No way you’re traipsing around the fucking Underworld with some Olympian shitbird as a guide and no backup,” was how he put it.
I didn’t want to put Jamaal—or anyone else, for that matter—in danger, but I had to admit he made a hell of a nice security blanket. And I doubt I could have convinced him to stay home anyway.
We met Cyrus and several of his goons at the cemetery. One of them turned out to be the Olympian we were borrowing.
Oscar was a descendant of Hades, and he looked like the kind of guy who might find employment as a mob enforcer. Big. Intimidating. Buzz-cut hair. Deep-set glower.
Despite his imposing build and weaselly eyes, there was still an aura of power to him, and I knew that suit he was wearing hadn’t come off some department store rack. So he might be a mob-enforcer look-alike, but he was an especiall
y well-dressed and -groomed one.
“Seriously?” I asked him when Cyrus made the introduction. “You’re going to the Underworld wearing a suit?”
I was wearing a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt over a sleeveless top. The last time I’d been to the Underworld, it had been uncomfortably hot, so I figured layers were the key.
“What do you care what I wear?” Oscar countered. He looked me up and down with a little sneer, letting me know he was not impressed by my own wardrobe choices. “If I mess up this suit, I’ll buy another.”
No, it would never occur to an Olympian to take good care of his belongings. Everything—and everyone—was disposable to them.
“Play nice, children,” Cyrus said with an indulgent chuckle as he gave Oscar a pat on the shoulder. Oscar tensed almost imperceptibly, and the muscles in his jaw worked.
I looked the Olympian straight in the eye, which he didn’t seem to like much. “I’m not taking you with me if you’re not a volunteer,” I said, because the vibe I was getting from him suggested he wasn’t. Not that I was in any position to turn up my nose at any aid Cyrus chose to offer, but I didn’t much like going into the Underworld in the first place, and I liked the idea of going there with a hostile, resentful Olympian in tow even less.
“Of course he’s a volunteer!” Cyrus said before Oscar could answer. “We Olympians are not known for doing things we don’t want to do.”
True enough as far as it went, but they did have a hierarchy, and I doubted Cyrus had any qualms about pushing his people around. Especially not when manufacturing a volunteer would win him some alone time with Blake.
“And yet you felt compelled to answer when I wasn’t talking to you,” I said, narrowing my eyes at Cyrus. “If he’s a volunteer, why didn’t you just let him say so?”
“I’m a volunteer,” Oscar snapped. “Now can we just stop yapping and get this over with?”
Oscar wasn’t winning any acting awards in the near future. There was no hiding the anger that lurked behind his eyes, and I suspected some of his belligerence was born of fear. Or maybe I was just projecting my own feelings.
