The upper city is all skyscrapers, the buildings nearly blocking out the sky; they might gain more character the farther one gets from the city center, but they don’t lose any height. The buildings on this street all stop at three or four stories, and as I look around, I pick out a laundromat, two restaurants, a few places with businesses I can’t determine, and a little corner grocery store. All the buildings have a feeling of age, as if they’ve stood here a hundred years and they’ll still be here a hundred years from now. The street is clean and there’s plenty of foot traffic on the sidewalks. The people are varied, dressed in everything from business casual to jeans to one guy in pajama pants and bedhead who ducks into the corner store. It’s all so normal. These people obviously aren’t worried that paparazzi are going to pop out around a corner or that one wrong move will cause catastrophic social consequences. There’s an ease here that I don’t know how to explain.
I turn around and look at Hades’s home. It appears exactly how I would expect from the parts of the interior I’ve seen. Almost Victorian with its steep roofs and all the stylistic extras. It’s the kind of house that speaks of a long and complicated history, the sort of place kids dare each other to run up to and touch the gates after dark. I bet there are just as many legends about this house as there are about the man who lives in it.
It shouldn’t fit with the rest of the neighborhood, but the eclectic clash of styles isn’t a clash at all. It feels strangely seamless, but with character that the city center in the upper city lacks.
I love it.
I glance back, only to find Hades watching me. “What?”
“You’re ogling.”
I suppose I am. I give the street another scan, lingering on the pillars that bracket the laundromat. I can’t be sure at this distance, but it almost looks like there are scenes carved into them. “I’ve never been across the river.” It never struck me as odd before—the way that Olympus is carved in two by the River Styx. The sheer lack of crossover between the two sides. Surely other cities aren’t like that? But then, Olympus isn’t like any other city.
“Why would you?” He takes my hand and slips it into the crook of his elbow like an old-world gentleman. “Only the more stubborn—or desperate—get across the river without an invitation.”
I fall into step beside him. “Would you…” I take a deep breath. “Would you show me around?”
Hades stops short. “Why would you want that?”
The harshness of the question shocks me, but only for a moment. Of course he’d be protective of this place, these people. I carefully touch his arm. “I just want to understand, Hades. Not gape at them like a tourist.”
He glances at my hand and then at my face, his expression unreadable. Except it’s not entirely unreadable, is it? He only goes icy when he wants distance or doesn’t know how to react. “We can go for a short walk after we get you some weather-appropriate clothing.”
Part of me wants to argue about the short part of the walk, but the truth is that my feet do ache, and after the events of the last few days, it’s smart to keep from overextending. “Thank you.”
He nods and we begin walking again. After a block, I can’t keep my questions bottled up any longer. “You say the people aren’t allowed here without an invitation, but Hermes and Dionysus were here not two days ago. Did you invite them?”
“No.” He makes a face. “There’s no boundary that can hold those two. It’s annoying as fuck.” His words say one thing, but there’s a certain level of fondness in his tone that has me fighting down a smile.
“How did you meet them?”
“It was less a meeting than an ambush,” he rumbles. He’s watching the street as if he expects an attack, but his posture is loose and relaxed. “Not long after Hermes took over the position, I found her in my kitchen, eating my food. I’m still not sure how she got past security. How she keeps getting past security.” Hades shakes his head. “Dionysus and I are familiar because distribution is something we both handle different parts of, but it wasn’t until Hermes that he started showing up outside business meetings, too. The man can drink like a fish, and he’s always in my goddamn fridge, eating my desserts.”
I’ve met both of them previously, of course, but unlike many of the other Thirteen, they don’t seem to care about politicking. At the last party, they were sitting in a corner and engaged in a rather loud running commentary critiquing everyone’s clothing choices as if they were on a red carpet. Aphrodite, in particular, had not been amused when they called her dress “a puffy vagina.”