Bonds of Hercules (Villains of Lore, #2)(126)

“I refuse!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

“I’m not asking.”

There were no traces left of my gentle husband.

The House of Ares—the House of War—was brutal.

“But … but … but …” I racked my brain, searching for a solution, an escape.

Augustus struck, cuff rattling—he grabbed my right hand and wrist, the one that held the rod—he squeezed, his nails digging painfully into my skin.

“No,” I whispered.

“Yes.”

He slowly rotated my arm until the pointed end of the staff aimed toward him.

Augustus took a step back, still holding my wrist in a punishing grip, the long crimson rod stretched between us, its end wickedly sharp.

“Alexis Hert,” whispered through my skull. “I love you.”

With un-counterable strength, he yanked my arm forward—straight into his heart.

I screamed as he fell to his knees, skewered on the staff.

Desperately, I yanked out the sharp end, touching it gently over the bleeding wound.

I focused on healing.

On the tingling in my hands.

The pain in my chest.

My fingers lit up with white light, the rod glowing brighter as if set on fire from within.

“No, my carus.”

Black eyes flashed as they opened—he smacked the rod away and it slammed against the wall in a sizzling splash of blood.

“No!”

“The greatest honor I’ve ever known … is being your husband. It’s a privilege to be branded for you. Thank you.”

Lashes closed.

Reeling from blood loss and the shock of it all, I tripped over the sand.

Your hands are glowing—heal him yourself.

I stopped and turned back toward Augustus, pure panic making it hard to think. I didn’t know if it would work, but I had to try.

“THE ROUND IS OVER,” Zeus announced.

No!

He jumped down through the force field and landed right next to Augustus, holding Vulcan metal.

Too quickly, Zeus ripped Augustus’s toga open.

Storm-gray eyes met mine as he plunged the brand down onto his unblemished skin and flesh sizzled.

Pure, unadulterated loathing filled me.

Guards swarmed out, picking up Augustus’s limp body, and carrying him away.

I fell to my knees.

Nyx hissed and wrapped around my neck. “Don’t look, kid,” she whispered.

It was too late for me.

Without preamble, Zeus stalked across the sand. He ripped Kharon’s toga open as he grabbed him by his dark hair and lifted his limp body up.

Zeus slammed the brand into his already mangled chest. I clutched my heart.

When Kharon awoke, he’d have another scar.

Fluffy Jr. growled as he stumbled across the sands, turning to stand in front of me, his wings tucked against his back.

Clutching my stomach, I vomited its contents, then I dug my hands into the blood-soaked sand and pushed myself to my feet.

I staggered upright, screaming at the top of my lungs, “I know what you did!”

Zeus stopped walking.

He fisted his hands.

“You’re playing a game that you can’t win,” Zeus said, his back still to me. “If you don’t make it to the gate, you lose.”

He resumed walking away.

Choking on rage, I took a limping step forward, chasing after him.

One foot at a time.

A strange buzzing echoed.

It was clapping.

A new chant started, voices growing in strength, until Sparta was bellowing at the top of its lungs.

“A hero is forged—behold, the twelve labors of Hercules … A hero is forged—behold, the twelve labors of Hercules … A HERO IS FORGED—BEHOLD, THE TWELVE LABORS OF HERCULES.”

Finally, what felt like hours later, I stepped out of the harsh sun, into the shadowy hall of the coliseum, and collapsed on all fours.

Lying on the stone floor, I unzipped my toga pocket and pushed my hand inside—the graphing calculator was warm to the touch.

The odds were always in my favor.

I wanted to curl into a fetal position and sob for Augustus and Kharon, but I was still alive—I could still do this.

As darkness beckoned, my bloodline chanted my name. Hades and Persephone had made me in their image.

Zeus would learn.

I was the heiress to the House of Hades—and hellhounds, not lions, were the top of the food chain.





46


INTERROGATIONS




ALEXIS

Freezing water splashed across my face, and I struggled to breathe as someone pinched my nose. The pressure released. I coughed violently.

The room was dark.

Something cold dug into my skin—I shifted—chains were wrapped around my chest and legs, constraining me to a chair. My hands were at my sides, mostly free.

I was sitting in front of a metal table that was streaked with dried blood.

Skulls were stacked all around.

I’m in a crypt beneath the coliseum.

Marvelous. Not.

Nyx slowly slithered up to my shoulders, her invisible weight comforting. “Are you okay, kid?” she hissed, her tongue flicking against my cheek.

I coughed aggressively. “Hard … no.” My face and side were still throbbing. “How about you?” I whispered under my breath.