Bonds of Hercules (Villains of Lore, #2)(104)

It was the infamous Greek fire, flames that somehow burned water. It was real, and it was coming out of Achilles’s mouth.

The Minotaurs were now steaming piles of melted goo.

I made the sign of the cross.

Fire kept streaming from Achilles’s mouth as he directed the inferno at the wall of the arena. His eyes were two supernovas.

Zeus backed up along the plank, his expression furious. He still did not raise his scepter.

The fire was traveling up into the stadium; everything that was wet was catching aflame.

Rain continued to pour.

Fire climbed across the electric lines of the dome.

Achilles closed his jaw, but the damage was done.

Everything was burning.

Crack.

Zeus scowled like he was making a decision. Technically Achilles hasn’t disobeyed him. He used his powers and fought his labor like he was ordered to.

Zeus must have come to the same conclusion I did, because he leapt away.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

The crowd screamed, sharp sounds echoing as Olympians and creatures leapt out of the smoldering arena.

Achilles stomped, leaving shards behind him.

The sand was glassing over.

Ares stood up a few rows down, pumping his fist into the air. The other Chthonic leaders stood around him, all whooping and hollering as the rest of Sparta fled for their lives.

Our section was the only one staying in the blazing stadium.

Charlie clutched me and I held him back.

It was the end of days.

Kharon whistled behind us and Augustus chuckled.

I’d gotten a mere glimpse of it during the flag ceremony, but now I truly understood the full weight of just who I was.

To be Chthonic was to wield the power reserved for God.

As the flames sizzled hotter, down below, Achilles stomped over to a flaming puddle and picked up his discarded mask. The material was fully intact.

“Magic,” I whispered.

Augustus chuckled behind me. “No—it’s the skin of a fire lizard.”

Charlie pulled away from me, covering his face protectively as the fiery rain whooshed closer.

One man had caused all this carnage.

A memory niggled at the back of my mind.

Weeks ago, Achilles had cornered me in the hall with an unlit cigarette in his mouth—minutes later, he’d told Patro that he didn’t have a lighter, as he sucked on a smoking cigarette.

He’d lit it himself. That was why Patro had called him a show-off.

Achilles, the man who smelled like amber and fire, with eyes like coals, could breathe Greek fire.

Father John was right again—the devil hid in plain sight.

All along Achilles had been a dragon, hiding in the skin of a man.

Fingers abruptly wrapped around my neck from behind—I jumped in my seat—a calloused thumb scraped down the ridges of my spine.

Panic clawed at my jugular.

“Don’t,” Kharon whispered gravelly against my right ear, “be afraid, carissima.”

It was far too late for the warning.





38


SEDUCTIVE PROPOSITIONS




ALEXIS: SGC DAY 9

Drex and I stood next to a marble pillar on the edge of the room, out of the way of the dance floor.

A stack of speakers sat in the corner with an unused electric guitar plugged into it. I stared at it.

A canorous piano melody tinkled through the room, and the musician was good, but not as talented as Kharon.

On the dance floor, I caught glimpses of pastel eyes and long shimmering hair, but whenever Lena came into focus, she was pulled away, disappearing into the crush of bodies.

Olympians, sirens, and all manner of creatures spun languidly to funereal hymns. Sparta was nothing if not morbid.

“Drex, I have pointers for you!” Agatha called from a few feet away, where she was talking to Hermos and Patro.

Patro scanned the room, meeting my gaze—he looked away.

Emotions welled up in my throat.

Drex blushed at Agatha’s attention. “I’ll be back,” he said as he threw back his glass of ambrosia with one nervous gulp and walked away.

Tomorrow it would be his turn in the arena.

Leaning against the pillar, I opened my mouth to tell him to hurry—and erupted into a coughing fit.

Napalm and kerosene still stung the back of my throat.

I rubbed my tingling palms against my toga, vision warping. The dance floor was on fire, water dripped from the ceiling, the droplets mixed with flames. Heat scorched my cheeks.

I reared back.

The room was normal. Spartans laughed and danced with abandon.

Everything was fine, except … it wasn’t.

Little fires burned everywhere.

The battle was raging, and the Chthonics were losing.

Drex, Kharon, and Augustus each had to fight, and then it would be my turn in the arena. Twelve labors.

Patro rocked back and forth, listening to something Drex was saying to Agatha—a pool of crimson was gathering at his feet, leaking out the holes of his laces—and there were bloody boot prints across the floor where he’d walked.

Patro glanced at me again, despair in his eyes.

His ankle should have been healing already.

My fingers tingled—I looked down and nearly fell over—a faint glow emitted from them.

“Are you seeing this?” I whispered.