The rest of the Thirteen are here. I easily pick them out in the first few rows. Artemis, who looks like she wants nothing more than to strike me down where I stand for killing her cousin. Athena, Dionysus, Apollo, Poseidon, all of them serious and stern. I notice that Apollo brought his little girlfriend along.
Every single one of them wants me dead, and here they are, attending my wedding. Have to keep up appearances. This city loves that shit. Demeter, Hades, and Hera round out the guests. Soft. All of them are so fucking soft.
The music swells, and the guests turn as one to look back at the fancy door at the back of the space. First comes Ariadne, my foster sister. I don’t have much experience with weddings, but I thought the point was to pick ugly bridesmaid dresses so they don’t show up the bride. Aphrodite hasn’t done that. The deep red looks nice against Ariadne’s light-brown skin and the cut is flattering on her curvy body.
My gaze tracks to the reporters clustered just off to the side. Their snapping cameras are audible even with the strange little melody the wedding planner picked for this part of the event.
Pandora follows, and fuck if that doesn’t piss me off even more. She looks great. She always looks great. Her dress is a little different from Ariadne’s and fits her curves to perfection. She gives me a big smile, as if this whole thing is real instead of a political marriage to my enemy. But then, Pandora has a habit of only seeing the bright side of things. She’s my perfect balance in that way because fuck if I can see anything bright about this situation.
I wish I’d had a chance to talk to her in the last couple days. She always has a new perspective to offer, and maybe she knows some secret that will make this marriage anything less than open warfare.
Except that’s a fool’s dream.
Hermes and Ares follow. Hermes is a petite Black woman wearing an honest-to-gods jumpsuit with her natural curls on full display. She’s cute, but I’ve seen exactly how dangerous she is. Only a fool would see the impish smile and think she’s harmless.
Ares is last: a white woman with auburn hair, each move showcasing the kind of grace that she used against me in the Ares competition. I hadn’t known she was a gymnast before entering the tournament. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have underestimated her. I watch her approach with narrowed eyes. She’s the reason I walk with a limp now, and I’d like nothing more than to return the favor.
Ares lifts her gaze and catches me staring. She’s absolutely stunning, even when glaring. If Aphrodite didn’t want to be outshone on her wedding day, she shouldn’t have put her sister in the wedding party. Ares is the kind of beautiful that makes me a little sick to my stomach. Features too perfect to be real.
I could fix that for her.
Her gaze flicks to my knee and her smile widens. It’s everything I can do to stand perfectly still as she walks past to take up her place on the other side of the altar instead of wrapping my hands around her long throat.
The music changes and then it’s Aphrodite’s turn.
The air goes charged as she steps through the doors and makes her way slowly down the aisle. She doesn’t have the same otherworldly beauty that Ares does, but I can’t tear my gaze away from her. Her dress is almost indecent, or at least hints that it could be with one wrong move, and her mass of dark hair is piled on her head in a fancy design that looks like it took hours.
She holds my gaze boldly. It strikes me that she’s walking down the aisle alone. Shouldn’t her brother be giving her away instead of standing at my back like he wants nothing more than to sink a knife between my ribs before I can say my vows?
There’s probably some symbolism here. Olympus seems to love that shit. Nothing is straightforward and no one says what they mean. It wasn’t like that back on Aeaea. I won’t pretend it was some nice life without pitfalls, but at least people didn’t smile to your face and then murder you the first chance they got.
It isn’t lost on me that I did exactly that two weeks ago.
Aphrodite stops in front of me. She’s already tall, but wears heels that make her even taller than my six feet, two inches. She smiles and it’s not a happy expression. I once again have to fight not to tense. I’ve read the headlines of that gossip site they call news—MuseWatch. No one believes this is a love match. It’s a relief in a way.
I don’t have to pretend to like my wife.
The priest, an old white guy with all of three hairs on the top of his head, starts going on about the principles that guide a good marriage, but I ignore him and stare at the woman I’m linking my life to.