“That’s godsawful. I expected better of Thalia.”
I freeze in the middle of hanging the dress up. I know that voice, but even as I tell myself it’s not possible, I look in the mirror and meet the gaze of Hermes. She’s a petite Black woman with natural hair who favors quirky wide-frame glasses and has the gift of mimicry. Today her glasses are bright red and she’s wearing purple glittering pants, an orange hoodie with the picture of a cat on the front of it, its eyes bugging out, and red Chucks. I suppose when you’re one of the Thirteen, you can do whatever you want and people just accept it. The benefit of power. Hermes, in particular, doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks of her. She appears to enjoy shocking people and challenging their expectations, which would be enough to make her interesting to me, but she’s one of the Thirteen, so I try to steer clear.
There’s no steering clear now.
I don’t try to cover myself, don’t blush, don’t react in any way that would tell her I’m nonplussed by this development. “Hello, Hermes.”
“Hi, Psyche.” She leans down and stares at my breasts. “Is that a Juliette bra? It’s exquisite. And I’m not just saying that because your tits are a ten.”
I strive for patience. I haven’t spent much time interacting with Hermes, but the few conversations we’ve had felt like walking through a minefield blindfolded. Persephone likes her, but Persephone has enough power now that she can associate with members of the Thirteen without worrying about being steamrolled. I’m not that lucky. There’s no good reason for Hermes to be here, but I hope against hope that it’s merely her curiosity that brought her around, rather than her official duties. “What can I help you with?”
“Maybe I just showed up to chat.”
I don’t let out a sigh of relief. Not when she’s got that mischievous look in her dark eyes. “Did you?”
“Nope.” She grins at the look on my face. “Okay, yes, fine, you caught me. It’s official business. I have a message for you.”
Damn it, that’s what I’m afraid of. “A message that couldn’t wait until I’m dressed.”
She shrugs. “Sorry, love. It’s marked urgent. You know how these things are.”
I do, but mostly in theory. I’ve very intentionally dodged the worst pitfalls the upper crust of Olympia has to offer. In theory, I possess a fraction of power since my mother is Demeter, but the truth is far more complicated. Even within the Thirteen, there are hierarchies. The legacy titles—Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon—stand apart. The status of the rest fluctuates depending on the year, the season, sometimes even the week. Seniority counts for something, as do the responsibilities of certain titles—Ares with Olympus’s personal army, for example. Add in alliances and feuds and petty grievances, and one wrong move can have half of Olympus turning on you.
We all watched it happen with Hercules. As a member of Zeus’s family, he should have been nearly untouchable, but he pushed too hard to reveal the seedy underbelly of the shining upper city’s politics. Every single one of them turned on him as a result. The official story is that he left Olympus of his own power, but since everyone’s afraid to even mention his name now, the message is crystal clear.
Cross the Thirteen and they will wipe you from existence.
I bite back a sigh. “Okay, let’s hear the message.”
Hermes straightens and clears her throat. When she speaks, a man’s voice emerges from her lips. “This mess isn’t going to blow over anytime soon. There’s only one way to keep our mothers from feuding. Meet me tonight at Erebus. Come alone.”
I know that voice. “Eros.” What is he thinking? The last thing we can do is risk being seen together. The paparazzi that fuel MuseWatch are too savvy to miss an opportunity like this, even if we meet somewhere neither of us normally frequent. Being caught in one chance encounter is one thing, but two? It will incite an inferno of gossip.
“Why wouldn’t he just call me if he wants to talk?”
Hermes raises her brows. “And risk you deciding to record the conversation and use it against him?”
She has a point, but still… “There’s nothing stopping me from doing that anyway.”
“Maybe he’ll pat you down—in a very sexy manner.” Hermes bounces on her toes. “You know, I have to ask. Were you banging in the bathroom at the party two weeks ago?”
“No.” My mind offers up the image of Eros with blood on his shirt, his low voice saying, It’s the blood of the last pretty girl who asked too many questions. He’s Aphrodite’s fixer. Has Aphrodite decided I’m a problem in need of fixing?