Bonds of Hercules (Villains of Lore, #2)(15)

The altar was gone, but the grand staircase, dramatic windows, and ceiling fresco were the same.

Kharon stalked toward me across the waxed marble floor, hellhounds prowling at his feet. He was stopped by a servant, a tall man in a dark cloak who looked more like a warrior than a housekeeper.

Where’s Augustus?

I looked around in confusion.

Patro and Achilles were both staring at me—one with haughty smugness, the other danger.

I’d chosen them because they were the lesser of two evils, but from the way Achilles’s eyes were narrowed, I wasn’t so sure that was true.

Chest tightening with dread, I shuffled closer to Drex.

Crack.

Augustus appeared a few feet away, smoke rising around him.

I gasped.

A boy stood beside him.

They were of similar height, but where Augustus was powerfully built, the boy was skinny and lean, his shoulders hunched inward like he was trying to hide.

Charlie.

“For you, my carus,” Augustus said as he held my gaze. “Persephone has agreed that he can join Helen in tutoring—she said he’s turning eighteen on April 1st, barely a year’s difference—it will be good for both of them to have a classmate until they’re nineteen.”

Charlie shook his head at me. The movement was barely a twitch and no one else saw. Persephone had lied; he would turn nineteen in a few weeks.

I opened my mouth to respond, but no sound came out.

Augustus’s expression softened. “Get a good night’s sleep—your training begins tomorrow. We only have a week to prepare for Titans.”

Augustus addressed a servant with a fierce scowl. “Raise the perimeter defenses.”

There was a whirling groan—the atrium vibrated, amphoras and bronze statues rattled—outside the grand windows an electric fence slowly rose from the earth.

“It’s to keep the enemy out,” Augustus said coldly.

The Titans or Medusa?

“The Olympians.”

Drex choked.

Augustus turned and walked away, back ramrod straight, shoulders tensed. He snapped at Achilles and Patro, something about weapons and a board meeting.

A bad feeling settled into my gut.

Screw Sparta and its convoluted politics.

Blond hair blurred in my blind spot—Charlie slammed against me—he smelled like clean soap and the forest at dawn. Home. My still-aching bones creaked under his strength, but I squeezed him back fiercely.

Long moments passed as we held each other.

Someone tapped my shoulder.

I turned, arm still wrapped around Charlie.

Helen looked up at me, shy and uncertain. “Would you two mind … sleeping in my room with me?” she whispered as she twisted her hands. “Just for safety.”

This was not the sixteen-year-old girl who’d talked a mile a minute.

Heart breaking for what she’d been through, what we’d survived, I nodded.

When we got up to her bedroom, we all turned.

“What?” Drex asked sheepishly. “I’m not sleeping in a room with any of those psychopaths. I’m also not sleeping alone in this place—it’s probably haunted.” He paused. “Is that okay?”

Thus commenced my first official sleepover.

Moonlight filtered through ancient stained glass windows, a wire fence between us and the shimmering Lake Como.

The landscape was silvery and cold.

Inside was a different story.

Pink silk sheets were draped across a four-poster bed covered in crystal-encrusted chiffon. Wigs, dresses, and pearls were strewn across the floor. Makeup was also scattered over every surface.

Amongst the frills, a life-sized poster covered the wall—Erebus wore his signature mask and held a smoking gun.

“Kill or be killed” was written across the top in gothic letters, dripping blood.

I like Helen’s style.

A dangerous-looking servant pushed inside a rolling table covered in a dozen silver plates.

He pulled off the lids.

Ten minutes later, Charlie and I had finished half of the food. We clutched our stomachs, still eating. In contrast, Helen and Drex picked at their plates, gaping at us with wide eyes.

They didn’t understand.

A lifetime of starvation left claw marks on your soul.

That night, stomach sickly full, thoughts racing, body bruised, I fell into a fitful sleep.

Nightmares devoured.

Gasping, I sat up in bed—the room was quiet—everyone else was still resting.

I need to go back to Crete and check on her. My thoughts were jumbled.

Wiping sweat away with trembling fingers, I sighed.

I was wearing one of Helen’s purple nightgowns, body aching like I’d been hit by a Spartan car. The bruises were fading thanks to the Olympians’ healing paste, but my bones were still brittle and stiff.

Helen snored softly in the bed beside me, wearing a pink sparkly bonnet, and a loaded Spartan gun peeked out from beneath her pillow.

An arsenal of weapons was also mounted on the bow-covered headboard, every gun bedazzled with pink gems.

A loud snore echoed up from the pile of cushions on the floor.

Charlie was sprawled next to Fluffy Jr., whose four long legs were sticking straight in the air. Every few seconds, he paddled his paws like he was swimming.

On the other end of the floor, closer to the door and opposite of the bed to Charlie, Drex was asleep on purple cushions with his golden toucan protector—that he’d ingeniously named Toucey—tucked under his arm.