Zai points in one direction, then at me, before he runs off in the other direction—up the mountainside into the evergreen trees, every single step crunching loudly. No trees for me, then. I spin and make it to the corner of the building, checking carefully.
“Lyra Keres!” Poseidon bellows.
He sounds farther down, so I run between the temples of Hermes and Athena, toward the road, then pause there, hiding in the shadows. I don’t immediately hear Poseidon running my direction, so I make my way to the other corner of Athena’s temple and poke my head out. The sun has finally set, and I breathe a bit easier. I might be able to skirt back to Hades’ home in the darkness without incident.
In a blur of hands and shadows, I’m grabbed from behind and held against a tall, barrel-chested body, one arm wrapped around my waist and a knife held to my neck. Not slicing yet but pressing enough that I suck in sharply, heart racing and mind going foggy with fear. Both of my arms are pinned. I can’t do anything with the axe or the pearl.
“You,” Poseidon says. “It’s your fault my champion is dead.”
Hells.
I hold still and say nothing. My mind is spinning with any way out of this. Anything I can do or say.
Think, Lyra.
There’s got to be a way to stop him.
“You think you can win this?” he demands, breath hot on the side of my face, reeking of beer. “You can’t. You think anyone will be a true ally?”
Oh gods. Did he overhear?
He barks a harsh laugh. “Even that pathetic whelp of Aridam’s is going to turn on you. The other champions are already plotting to use you to get through the next Labor and then eliminate you. He’s just reeling you in.”
My spinning thoughts trip over that.
Is Poseidon telling the truth? Am I just being played? Past experience and a certain curse rear their ugly heads.
Focus. Get out of here alive. Worry about Zai later.
If I can just get to the pearl…
“Why in the name of Tartarus did my brother choose you?” In the dark, his eyes look black. “He must be hard up to get laid since Persephone died.”
I gasp. “That’s not—”
“I hope you enjoyed him, little mortal. Because I’m going to make that your last.” Poseidon’s grip suddenly tightens, the knife digging in a bit more. The slice of pain is enough to make me whimper. “Screw whatever the Daemones think they can do to me,” he growls. “If I can’t win, Hades sure as fuck won’t.”
My rapidly chugging heart drops into my stomach.
I point out in a low, wobbly voice, “Are you seriously threatening the god of death’s champion?”
The blade lifts away just a teensy smidge. Questions make people do that unconsciously as they think. Apparently, gods, too.
In a blink, I slam my head backward and connect with the hard edges of Poseidon’s nose and chin. He grunts in my ear, his arms falling away in shock, and I jab my elbow into his gut. Maybe because he’s drunk, he falls over.
“I’m going to skewer you on my trident,” he yells.
I shoot to my left even as I lift the pearl to my mouth.
Except when I spin around, I find myself running straight into Hades’ strong arms, his features harsh in the night but more familiar to me in the dark. Maybe because of the way we met.
I haven’t known him long, but I have never seen him so angry. Even earlier when he yelled at me.
That anger was big and loud and edged in frustration. Now he’s so cold and contained, I shiver.
“Did he hurt you?” His voice is as gritty as soot.
Then his hands are all over my body. Not in a sexual way, but clinical as he checks every single part of me for injury. Even so, warmth seeps through each point of touch.
Then he brackets my face with his hands. “Are you harmed, Lyra?”
Warmth coalesces inside my belly, which is turning squishier by the second. I should not be squishy for the god of death, no matter how much it sounds like he cares. That’s a terrible idea. “I’m fine.”
He eases fractionally. Just for a moment, his heated gaze holds mine, and…there it is. That sensation again. He’s standing before me, only touching my face, but his mouth might as well be on mine, tasting his fill.
Until his gaze drops to my neck and the sensation disappears in an instant as he goes stone still. I know he’s seen the cut Poseidon’s knife made. His eyes narrow, and that cold, leashed fury drops another ten degrees in temperature so that even my shivers have shivers.
Oh gods. This is what really mad looks like.
“She’s bleeding,” he says, the words clipped and short.
He’s not talking to me. He’s talking to Poseidon, who is still on the ground and swaying a little. The ocean god goes ashen with fear.
Hades walks over and squats down beside the other god.
He grabs the handle of the knife from Poseidon’s limp hand and lifts the blade up, the sharp edge catching the light from the moon and glinting as he uses it to gesture toward me without breaking eye contact with his brother. “She is mine. And I protect what’s mine.”
He expertly flips the knife, blade angled down on Poseidon’s thigh, and raises his hand in the air.
