Can’t wait.
Before I accidentally slip and say that out loud, my vision blinks out once more. Like when we came to Olympus, the journey is completed in darkness with no sense of sound or feeling beyond the arm under my hand, and no pressure or movement, either.
When my vision returns in an abrupt swish, it’s to find myself in… Wait. Where am I? I scan the sunken living area of a massive apartment. Is this…where I think it is? The view out the floor-to-ceiling windows confirms it—I’m somewhere in San Francisco.
“Is this your penthouse?”
“Yes.” His breath ruffles my hair.
“I thought the champions have to live on Olympus until the Crucible ends.”
“And you are. We’re only visiting, and this is still my territory. There’s a difference.”
I’m beginning to sense that Hades likes to see just how far rules will bend for him.
I step away, focusing on the room rather than him.
None of the decoration is Grecian—not even a hint of it. I guess I should expect that from Hades. The wealthy in this city are usually blessed by Zeus because they pander to his colossal ego, which includes leaning into all things ancient Greece. Instead, the room boasts a mix of items of various cultures and time periods scattered among the chromes and black leathers of modern furniture.
And not a single photograph or personal item. I know cameras are a more recent invention and this guy is old, but still, no painted family portraits or mementos of any kind.
“Tell me more about your curse,” he says.
I back up a bit. “I assumed you knew or could see…I don’t know…a mark or something.”
“No.”
“Zeus didn’t tell you?”
“There’s not a chat room for the gods where we share our daily cursings.”
I frown. “You curse mortals on a daily basis?”
“No. And since he didn’t say anything today…” Hades crosses his arms. “I’m guessing he forgot.”
So easy for them to ruin someone’s entire life and not even bother to remember. “I already figured that.”
Though nothing alters in his demeanor, I get the impression Hades is…satisfied, maybe? Smug? About what, I’m not sure.
“So the curse is you can’t be loved?”
I nod. “It means no one will want to work with me to get through the Labors. Not in a mean way. Just in a vague, they-keep-their-distance kind of way. No one really forms an attachment to me or cares if I live or die, I guess. And with the Labors in particular, there’s the added incentive of you.”
He shoots me a flat look.
“You could send me back—”
“It’s too late. When the Daemones asked if anyone wanted to decline, that was your last chance. The Crucible is a binding magical contract between the gods who enter, confirming they will finish, and, after the champions agree to participate, they’re included in that contract.”
“Is that the immortal version of ‘read the fine fucking print’?” My voice rises to a squeak, and I clear my throat. “That really needed to be explained better.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference. You were my only choice.”
He leaves me standing in the middle of the sunken living room as he walks to the foyer. He points down the hall. “Your room is that way. Third door on the right. There is an en suite bathroom.” Then he stalks away, shutting the door at the end of the hallway behind him.
I stand in the foyer, staring after him, a little more than dazed. Then I tip my head back, only to blink at the ceiling, which could have been painted by Michelangelo himself—a frieze depicting the Underworld and all its levels.
Where I’m going to end up sooner rather than later if I’m not careful.
“I don’t need the reminder,” I mutter to the universe in general. “I already know I’m fucked.”
19
Loopholes
I don’t know what I was expecting, but the room Hades pointed me toward is distinctly feminine, mostly in creams set against antique wood furniture with pops of lavender in the form of blankets and artwork. Through the wide-open door to the bathroom, I spy a massive claw-foot tub and actually sigh out loud.
The Order’s den only has a few communal bathrooms shared by all of us with single-stall showers so narrow, I bump my elbows against the walls when I wash my hair or shave my legs, and they regularly have no hot water.
This is luxury. My reward for surviving a shitty day.
I toss the tiara on the bed, strip off the clothes that were never mine to begin with, and within minutes, I’m soaking in beautiful bliss. Heaven.
My muscles, already turning sore from my sprint up the stairs in Olympus, release in the hot water like they are sighing, too. Under the bubbles scented with jasmine and vanilla, I trace the bruises cropping up in interesting purple stripes from my belly flop on those stairs.
“I’m lucky I didn’t break something.” I drop my head back against the rim of the tub.
