Bonds of Hercules (Villains of Lore, #2)(76)

Demeter was a short woman with curly blond hair and icy gray eyes. Her pale skin was covered in freckles, matching the rhinestones that dotted her brown toga. She was beautiful in a familiar, ethereal way. Persephone’s mother. She looked more like her sister.

Her head snapped and she scowled at me, her expression severe.

Grandma?

Something told me she would not like it if I called her meemaw or gammy.

Demeter’s gaze traveled across the Chthonics and landed on Hades. The death glare she shot him was sharp enough to kill. Slowly, she drew a threatening finger across her neck.

I was intrigued.

I’d always wanted to be involved in family drama, and this seemed extremely promising.

Dionysus walked beside my meemaw. He was a brawny Black man with long wavy purple hair that matched his suit.

He turned his head to look at us and his eyes were a shocking shade of white.

I swallowed a gasp.

Is he also secretly blind?

The Olympian House leaders positioned themselves in a line across from us on the other side of the long altar.

Thirteen of us.

Eight of them.

There was a heavy aura surrounding the leaders on both sides.

Power tingled across my tongue.

No one looked physically old, but they all felt ancient—it was something I couldn’t put my finger on—a sixth sense was screaming at me to run for my life. It was an innate terror.

These were the leviathans of this dark age.

The Olympian leaders focused on Kharon, their eyebrows rising. Athena leaned up to Poseidon and I read her lips, “He really did give her his ear. How … romantic.”

Poseidon scowled down at her. “It’s deranged.”

He’s not wrong.

Athena shook her head in disagreement.

Kharon reached up and rested his hand once again on the back of my neck, his thumb shifting my necklace so the blue diamonds caught the light.

Territorial and overly possessive, the action would have been demeaning coming from any other man, but there was something about Kharon—an animalistic energy that matched his hellhounds—that was intrinsic to his being.

I couldn’t stop myself from leaning into his touch.

Demeter’s scowl deepened.

Meemaw’s not happy. I fought the urge to wave at her.

Hostility radiated between the two groups.

Suddenly, I wasn’t sure the great war of Sparta had ever ended—it felt like we were standing in the middle of a ceasefire, both sides waiting for the other to take the first shot.

There was no love lost, no empathy, no … anything.

Just open hatred, and barely concealed violence.

Tension stretched, energy mounting, as Chthonic and Olympian House leaders sized each other up, waiting for someone to make the first move, so they could slaughter each other freely.

“Never give up, never surrender.” The stadium clapped and stomped, clumps of dried bloody sand shaking.

Zeus walked up to the altar—he raised both his hands up in the air, electricity sizzling on his skin—the stadium fell dead silent.

No one moved.

“Let us begin.” Zeus made eye contact with me, sparks leaping from his gaze.

The scar on my sternum prickled.

Fate smiled.

It didn’t take the power of premonition to know that things were about to get extremely unpleasant, for me.





29


OPENING CEREMONIES & GORE




ALEXIS

“The historic Spartan Gladiator Competition showcases Chthonic power.” Zeus’s voice projected, sparks dancing across his lips as he stood before the altar, his arms raised.

The stadium roared.

Olympian leaders glared behind him in their line.

Kharon scoffed on my left. “It’s a humiliation ritual,” he muttered under his breath, his thumb still stroking my neck.

Augustus’s nails dug into my lower back as he flexed his fingers.

He’d tried to rebuild his calm facade, but it wasn’t as convincing as before—cracks were showing. His eyes shone a little too brightly, his expression a little too sharp.

It was almost as if his headaches had stifled him, and now that he was pain free, his true nature was breaking free.

“This year there are thirteen Assembly of Death competitors,” Zeus said, looking over each of us. “Per tradition—we will have a thirteen-day contest starting tomorrow. One day for each Chth …” His gaze stopped on Drex, and he grimaced, like he’d forgotten about him. “Contestant.”

Drex tilted his chin up high like he was unaffected, but his face paled.

“Thirteen days of Spartan showmanship with no guns allowed,” Zeus continued with a golden smile. “Spartans, knives, and protectors only … just as our ancestors fought on these sacred sands. This is our modern ode to them.”

I shivered.

Only thirteen days?

From the way everyone talked about the competition, and the snippets of extreme bloodshed that played on the Spartan Lifestyle Page, I’d assumed it would be a month-long affair.

One day.

I just had to survive a single day.

Easy, you can do this.

Zeus rambled on about honor, violence, and the pride of showing off Spartan power.

Kharon and Augustus glanced down at me, faces twisted with concern—I’d subconsciously grabbed both their arms and pulled them closer to me—with a deep breath, I forced my fingers to relax.