Richer Than God

by Amelia Wilde

Because the man coming through the door hooks a hand around my arm and pulls.

  My feet go out from under me, dragging on the floor, and—no. No. Heels. I need heels on the floor, and I get them under me, pulling back. “Stop.” His grip is so tight there must already be bruises. “Let go.”

  Another man comes in behind him, dressed in black and a bulletproof vest—what?—and crowds me on the other side. Savannah has helpfully pressed herself against the wall, out of the way. I want to scream at her—she really is a horrible bitch—but then the ghostly pale of her face registers. The babbling. She’s begging. Please don’t hurt me. Please, don’t take me with you. Let me live; let me live.

  The man closest to her slaps her across the face. “We’re only here for one whore,” he says.

  Me. It’s me. “No—”

  All the fight in the world doesn’t matter, because the two of them overpower me like they’ve been trained to do this. They probably have been. It doesn’t stop me from trying. A muscle in my shoulder pulls—do not take me outside—but then we’re over the threshold and out into the back alley.

  It’s evening, the city cast in the orange fire of the sunset.

  I should have gotten on that train.

  The second thing I hear is my father… laughing.

  “There she is.” He stands at the end of the alley near a car I don’t recognize. “My daughter, the slut. Really, Brigit, I thought you were smarter than this.” His skin is turned a sickly color by the light, and my entire body recoils. He slides his hands into his pockets the way he used to do when we were finished having an argument. “You’re grounded.” That’s what he’d say. “Well, time to go. You’re late for your wedding.”

  22

  Zeus

  Savannah is in tears when she bursts into my office without knocking.

  Irritation flares. I have no time for her hysterics. “You know better than that,” I scold, standing up. If I have to drag her out of here, I will.

  “Men,” she breathes. “Came. And took Brigit. To the back.”

  For a split second, I allow myself to imagine exactly what I’m going to do to this woman as punishment for letting this happen. Worse than a whip. Because surely, she had something to do with it. But then—perhaps not. Her face is so pale, and her tears so genuine, that it looks like shock. Real shock.

  Which means Brigit is really in danger.

  Then I’m nothing but movement. I catch only a glimpse of the heartbreak on Savannah’s face as I brush by her. In the hall, I almost collide with Reya, who takes one look at my face and gets out of the way. Her footsteps fade behind me. She can deal with Savannah.

  There’s only one way out of the back—one way that’s public, anyway. The open end of the alley. The front entrance is, paradoxically, closest to it. The summer heat is a shimmering wall when I throw the door open and run.

  She’s screaming.

  Not the high, terrified scream of someone who’s being dragged to their death, but the raging scream of someone who’s being dragged to a fate worse than death. It echoes in my ears along with the ghosts of other screams. I got better at it, toward the end. There wasn’t so much noise. Now, the loudest sound is my own heart, beating in my ears.

  I round the corner, and the car comes into view. A man stands in front of it, his hands in his pockets, like he’s watching a sporting event. The event is Brigit, who is being wrestled by two men toward the car.

  She’s not going easy.

  I’m proud of her.

  And then I’m too busy assessing the situation to feel anything.

  Whoever this man is—I’m guessing it’s her father—hasn’t just brought two men with him; he’s brought four. And he has someone on the inside of Olympus too. I’ll deal with that later. For now, there’s Brigit.

  Her father looks at me disinterestedly as I go past him, my fist swinging into the face of the first man. The second has time to react. He reaches toward his belt. Brigit ducks out of the way, running for the shadowed part of the alley. It’ll be useless if I don’t get all these men down, and fast.

  I break one arm. The man screams, and then someone gets a hand on the collar of my jacket. He goes over my head and onto the ground, where I kick him in the head.

  Which leaves three more.

  The father goes past me, and I’d kill him if it weren’t for the other two, who have gotten out of their van and run over into danger without a care in the world. I deliver that care back to them one by one. Another broken nose. A broken knee.

  I want to kill them.

  I want to kill them so much.

  It’s so frustrating, not killing them. But if I do, then there are domino effects. The party is in a matter of hours. Money will change hands all throughout my business. Deals will be made. All of it will be easier if there aren’t bodies to move, to cover up. If I kill five men right now, then that’s the topic of conversation tonight. I can buy removal of their bodies from my alleyway. It’s much harder to buy silence.

  Five men.

  I turn around to find Brigit’s father walking her toward me, her arm twisted up behind her back. The sight of him touching her—of anyone touching her—tightens my chest and my fists. Maybe I will kill them all. But for a few more steps, I watch him.

  There is something deeply wrong with Brigit’s father.

  For one thing, he doesn’t seem to notice I’m here.

  Me.

  The tallest person in the alley, and the one with four men either crawling or hobbling away from him.

  Brigit’s father tries to sidestep me.

  What the fuck?

  I grab the front of his shirt and haul him in front of me, breaking his grip on her with one hand. “Where do you think you’re going with my property?”

  He looks up at me, eyes wild, and giggles. “Your property? This is my own daughter. She’s engaged. It’s a formal contract. Signatures have been signed, and everyone will be so happy in the end.”

  “She dissolved her contract. The only one still in force is the one with me. If you keep going, I’ll have to intervene. Of course you understand.”

  He reaches for her arm again. Brigit backs away toward the wall. What is she doing? A wall won’t save her. I catch her father’s wrist in my hand and squeeze until he gasps. “Brigit,” I prompt.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you want me to kill your father?” It’s not really up to her. Everything that happens now is up to me. But it seems like a common courtesy. “I’m giving you one more choice. Make it quickly.”

  A beat.

  “Not now,” she says.

  I break his nose instead.

  Her father’s hands fly up to his face, and I throw him toward the car. “Get the fuck away from here.” One of his men has already reached the car and opened the door. The other hauls himself up to his feet and comes for their leader, who is too busy clutching his nose to look where he’s going. They bundle him into the back of the car and drive away.

  It’s all wrong; something’s wrong, but I can’t decide what it is. There are too many variables. Demeter is clearly on the loose in the city. My sister is a danger when she doesn’t want revenge, and she wants it now—no question. Against me. Against Hades. Recent events have driven her mad. Brigit’s father, crumpling so easily. And the uncle. Why hasn’t he made a move yet? He must know she’s here.

  Brigit makes a wounded noise, and all of it dissolves into white noise.

  She’s still standing with her back against the wall, her face blank.

  I wait for her to fall.

  But she doesn’t.

  She stares straight ahead, not moving except for the tiny circle of her forefinger against her thumb. Out here, up against the height of my building, she looks smaller than she ever has. Small things can be dangerous too. Like land mines. Or hand grenades. The pin has already been pulled in this one.

  A breeze kicks up, sending strands of honey-colored hair across her face. I approach her slowly. She doesn’t look u
p at me until my shadow falls over her, blocking out what’s left of the sunset. I’m not going to damage the merchandise now, when there’s not much time left before everyone will begin arriving. That’s what I tell myself.

  Brigit’s eyes follow my hand when I raise it to brush the hair away from her face. “Sweetheart.”

  She swallows then clears her throat. “Yes?”

  “Come inside.”

  23

  Brigit

  First, Zeus takes out his phone, dials a number, and shouts into it like a man possessed. The words skip against one another. It’s hard to focus. I gather it’s the chief of police and that the man was supposed to do something but didn’t. I hear “you fucker” and “if you ever” and “tonight.” The gold in his eyes turns dark. He shoves a hand through his sun-kissed hair. Anger curls his lips.

  Then there’s the elevator.

  The living room of his apartments.

  The hall.

  The bedroom.

  And an enormous tub.

  He perches me on the edge of it and turns on the water. That sound—yes. That’s a good sound. That’s a nothing-sound. It’s the sound that blocks out everything else. Does he know I used to do this, late at night, to cover up my uncle’s voice in the house? Does he know? I try to snap myself out of this, whatever this is. It doesn’t work. The thing is, I didn’t expect my father to ever touch me again. I was prepared to trade everything else, knowing he would never touch me again. And he did.

  My skin crawls.

  Zeus moves around the bathroom, collecting things, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the water. A light touch on my shoulder prompts me to stand, and then—even lighter—my clothes come off. The robe I wore to the spa. The camisole I have on underneath. The bra, the panties. A few days ago, I might have been shocked by all this, by being naked in front of him. Now… nothing. The real horror was outside. Shut it out, shut it out.

  He puts me into the bath.

  The hot water is the first thing to make its way past the barrier between me and the world. There—water isn’t so bad. It’s hot enough to dissolve that touch. Zeus replaces it with others. A soft cloth, running over my shoulders and my back. He rubs it in neat circles over both arms, taking care with the marks on my wrist. My legs. Between my legs. My shins. My feet. More water runs, and I’m not sleeping, not exactly—I’m reclined. In his arm, one hand in my hair, working shampoo through, then conditioner, then rinsing it out.

  He’s still rinsing when I finally open my eyes and see.

  But his eyes aren’t on mine. They’re on the window behind the tub. He might as well be a million miles away.

  I wonder where he is.

  I keep wondering while he wraps me in a thick, white towel and runs a comb through my hair. Back in the bedroom, a neat pile of clothes waits for me. Someone must have brought them. Underwear and a nightgown. He dresses me carefully, efficiently, and then picks me up in his arms.

  For a minute, I’m exactly where I want to be. Somehow, I’ve always wanted this, even before I knew it. His heartbeat is strong and steady, and he smells so good.

  It doesn’t last.

  Zeus puts me into his giant bed, which is neat and clean, the pillows stacked up on each other like they would be at a fancy hotel. He pulls the comforter tight over my legs and tucks it in then sits down next to me.

  Feelings hover in the air.

  Mine are a train wreck. I don’t know what his are.

  Distraction, maybe. His eyes settle on mine, but they don’t stay focused.

  I put out a hand and touch his face.

  He has a strong face. His bones, I mean. They’re cut sharp, and the breath that escapes from his full lips is just short of a sigh. I don’t know what I’m doing, but it feels right. Some things feel right but aren’t. I don’t care what this is.

  Zeus reaches up for my hand and puts it back in my lap. I like it better when he leans closer, because then all I can see is him. There’s no king’s apartment in a whorehouse or back-alley sunset or anything else. His lips brush against my ear. “Stay here.”

  Then he leaves.

  It’s a long time before I can shake myself back to reality. It takes all of my willpower to snap the blankets back and get out of bed.

  I don’t know what I’m looking for when I go into his closet, but once I’m there, it’s obvious—the paintings.

  There’s the woman with paint on her body and a determined expression. But there are others too. The painting called Possession is the first in an arrangement of nine paintings. It’s the bottom-right one. A neat square, in Zeus’s neat closet.

  They’re gorgeous.

  And they’re more mysterious than anything I’ve seen here.

  What kind of man hides paintings in his closet? And paintings like this? Each one of them is a small masterpiece. And I have no idea what they have in common.

  The second one, next to Possession, is of a man whose eyes are almost black. It would be easy to get drawn into them, if a person had the courage to look. Even lingering on the painting makes me feel like he’s looking back. A shadow at his feet could be part of the landscape, or—is that a dog? The tag in the corner of the painting reads Like Father.

  Like Father. Like son, is how that goes. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I’ve never seen a picture of Hades before. But the title of the paining—it has to mean something.

  Next to Hades is a scene in blue. At first, I think it’s only shades of blue, but then the image resolves itself into a man, swimming in an endless ocean. Swimming or drowning? He looks like he’s at peace.

  “You have to stop coming in here.”

  Reya’s voice freezes me in place.

  “I know,” I tell her. And I will. After tonight, I won’t have any choice. She stands in the closet door with a gown over her arm. “Is that for me?”

  “Yes.” She presses her lips together. “Everybody else is at the party. You should be there too.”

  A wild hope takes wing. Does she mean I should be there for Zeus? I can’t think of a way to ask that question, and Reya’s brisk about what she’s come here to do. We leave Zeus’s bedroom and go back to the spa, which is empty, the chairs waiting. Reya blows out my hair and creates a cloud of makeup that leaves me a hundred times more beautiful than I’ve ever been. Then she slips the gown over my head.

  It’s light, a gossamer thing that gives the illusion that it’s sheer. In reality, my body is covered. It’s an invitation.

  A tease.

  “There.” She looks me up and down one more time. “You’re beautiful.” She sounds almost sorry. Reya bends to kiss my cheek. “You’re ready.”

  24

  Zeus

  How does it go in the old stories? There was a princess. That’s enough for them to get started.

  I’m in the main room of Olympus, with all its tables and booths, all of it dressed up like a fucking ball. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Brigit has turned herself into Cinderella.

  I’m still surprised.

  And annoyed, because I gave her an order, and now she’s disobeying me. Tonight of all nights. I’m already on edge.

  Well. That’s the game we’re playing, isn’t it? She glows in the lights that the decorators have strung around the room, and my heart twists. She’s too hopeful for this. Too innocent, somehow. Despite what I’ve done to her. And I’ve done everything I wanted to do, everything another man will do to her later tonight. She learned to survive it.

  So, though I want very much to take her up to my bedroom and punish her for her disobedience, I don’t. I end the conversation I’m in and go to her, offering my hand at the last moment. Offering a smile.

  Brigit blushes.

  “It’s the perfect gown for you,” I tell her. She doesn’t trust the compliment, telling me so with narrowed eyes. “It is,” I insist. “Come. Let’s show it to all our guests.”

  Guests. Some of them are undoubtedly enemies.

  “Our guests?” She arc
hes an eyebrow.

  “Some of them are here for you.” It’s a sidestep to her question. It’s only the first one of the night.

  “How are we going to do that?”

  I’m leading her through the room, and she’s rightfully turning heads. We stop every few feet so I can introduce her to another person, her name on their lips. Every man on her list is here tonight, some of them wrapped around other women while they bide their time. They’re keeping it relatively tame tonight. That doesn’t do a thing to disguise the lust in their eyes. “We’re going to dance.”

  Brigit misses a step, and I catch her, turning her toward the dance floor I’ve had set up at one end of the room. Music starts as I do it. The man who plays it over the in-house sound system has been paid to watch for opportune moments, like this one. It’s fifteen minutes past midnight. “We’re not dancing,” she says.

  “We are.”

  “No.”

  “We’re already dancing.”

  The fact of the matter is that I’m a good dancer. My father taught me to kill people, yes. He especially focused on killing prostitutes and other women who had crossed the wrong man. But he liked a little discretion. He liked being able to blend in. And blending in, on occasion, means being a good dancer. It’s possible to go places in the world while being a clumsy asshole, but it’s better to be just an asshole. Grace has its moments.

  Brigit’s face goes red, and she seems to realize suddenly that we are dancing. That I have a hand on the small of her back and her other hand in perfect position. That I’m turning her this way and that, letting the light shine on her from every direction.

  So they can see what they’re going to buy. And so I can see the men in the crowd.

  It’s not for me.

  It’s not because I’m entranced with the way she looks tonight. It’s not because I’m so desperate for her that I’d do anything to taste her right now. It’s not because I want her in my bed, and only in my bed, for the rest of her life. None of that is possible. None of that will ever be possible.