Bonds of Hercules (Villains of Lore, #2)(69)

Augustus moved from where he stood beside me and walked forward, tailored black suit stretching across his wide back as he raised the charging Minotaur flag of the House of Ares.

Wordlessly the crowd watched, all eyes focused on him.

Augustus’s long legs flew as he ran up the steps, two at a time—he held the House of Ares flag proudly above his head.

The stadium stomped faster.

Kharon stepped forward next.

With a grim expression, Kharon raised the rabid horse flag of the House of Artemis, his face hardening into sharp angles.

As he walked past Artemis, mother and son made eye contact. She’d secretly disowned him, but publicly, he was still the heir of the House. After all, there weren’t any other children left.

Artemis stared at his missing ear, then down to his visible protectors, her mist glittering as something like surprise flashed in her gaze.

Kharon looked away first, his face emotionless as he sprinted up the steps with his flag.

Hell and Hound ran beside him, teeth bared to the crowd. Olympians gasped and recoiled as they pointed at his protectors.

Murmurs of monsters and a missing ear echoed around the stadium.

From the reactions, most Spartans had never seen a hellhound in the flesh, since they were usually invisible.

The murmurs died down as Patro stepped forward.

He had one hand wrapped around the black swan flag of the House of Aphrodite, but Achilles raised it high, his grip taking the brunt of the weight.

Both men looked at me as they walked past.

I raised my chin—it’s not my fault you got caught, it was your plan, not mine—I silently let them see my annoyance.

Patro’s jaw clenched.

Achilles straightened.

They turned to each other and raised the flag higher, running up the steps in perfect tandem, side by side; Nero and Poppae trailed behind them.

It was my turn.

Hades nodded his head to me. Next to him, tears glimmered in Persephone’s eyes. “You can do this, daughter,” she mouthed with a hand over her chest.

The stadium shook with stomps.

I pulled my shoulders back.

I will make my mother proud.

Raising my right arm—Nyx invisible around my forearm—I held the long black staff above my head.

“Bow before us!” Nyx hissed for dramatic effect.

With my head high, I sprinted up the vibrating steps. Sparta blurred around me.

The skeleton hellhound flag of the House of Hades fluttered above.

My House.

My lineage.

Goose bumps broke out across my skin.

My power.

I would figure out what the tingling in my fingers and glowing light meant; I would figure out just who I was.

With Fluffy Jr. on my heels, an ancient war cry echoed through my mind. My ancestors ran with me—I could feel their pounding feet and racing hearts—their hopes and dreams were strumming through my veins.

Their power lived on inside of me.

My lungs expanded.

I will make my bloodline proud.

Even if it killed me.

“The lost heir to the House of Hades,” Olympians whispered as I ran by. Their bird protectors screamed, wings fluttering with distress—they were afraid of me—the animals and the Spartans.

I straightened as I sprinted.

They should be afraid.

Black flag above my head, arms tensing, I waved it back and forth with all my might.

“Angelus Romae!” someone called out near the top of the stadium, and there was a responding wave of nervous murmurs. Angel of Rome.

I stumbled, nearly tripping over a step.

I was no angel.

Adrenaline and pride drained away as I came to a stop at the designated Chthonic section and took my seat.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

All too soon, the massacre began.

One hundred boys leapt into the arena sands—then, they fought to the death.

Fluffy Jr. lay at my feet, whimpering. Helen and Charlie huddled together with Drex not looking, and my husbands sat rigid on either side of me.

A gruesome legacy to bear.

The chanting had died down as the first body dropped, and now screams from below echoed through the silent stadium.

Hades and Zeus stood together on a podium watching the death match.

Kharon and Augustus sat on either side of me.

I stared down blankly, head full of static.

Last year I’d been one of the bodies crawling through the muck and inky fog. I’d been throwing punches, amped up on adrenaline, delirious with blood lust.

Kharon leaned toward me, like he could read my thoughts. “How did you … survive?”

My hand drifted to the warm scales wrapped around my arm. “Nyx. Without her, I never would have made it. She … saved me.”

A forked tongue flicked against my skin.

“I’m … glad then,” Kharon said softly. “That you have her.”

“Me too.”

Nyx slid off my forearm onto him—Kharon jolted, his eyes wide as he stared down at where the sleeve of his suit indented.

“I always knew he would be a good mate,” Nyx hissed as she twined up his arm. “He smells like blood and death.”

If that doesn’t sum up my life.

Kharon sat up straighter and smirked at Augustus. “The killer snake likes me more than you.”