A Touch of Chaos (36 page)

Persephone leaned forward, resting her forehead against Hades's shoulder. He threaded his fingers into her hair and kissed her temple.

“I will love you through this,” he whispered. “I will love you beyond this.”

And he would murder everyone responsible for her pain.

The Stadium of Olympia was monumental. Crafted from marble, it was built between two steep hills, which gave the impression that it was sinking. The tiered seats of the arena were packed, brimming with mortals eager to see the gods and demigods clash. Between Theseus's accusations that a god had kidnapped his wife and child and Aphrodite's accusations that he and his followers were responsible for the deaths of Adonis, Tyche, and Hypnos, these games were no longer about the lives lost, though they never really had been, and Persephone mourned that, especially for Tyche, who deserved to be honored.

Aphrodite's announcement about the games and Helios's claims about Persephone had both drawn nonstop media attention, and the energy of the arena was palpable. Persephone was anxious to expose herself to thousands of people who now saw her as a murderer.

She inched closer to Hades. They were already pressed together, standing on the floor of his golden chariot,
waiting in line with other Olympians for the signal to move and enter the arena. They were surrounded by both friends and enemies. Before her was the fiery helm of Ares, behind her the golden helm of Apollo.

She relaxed the moment Hades's palm came to rest low on her stomach and shivered when his lips brushed her ear.

“Do you think I would let anyone harm you?” he asked.

“No,” she said, covering his hand with her own. “But I cannot help being afraid.”

There was a hostility in the air she had never felt before, and she knew part of it was directed at her.

“You did not have to come,” he said.

She turned her head to the side but didn't look at him, keeping her eyes on their surroundings. She could feel Hades's magic blazing around them, an invisible inferno warning away any potential threat, and while that might work on his fellow Olympians, she did not believe for a second it would scare away Theseus or his demigods.

If they were going to demonstrate the power of their weapons, they would do so today at the games, and what better way than to target her? The goddess who had murdered her mother?

“It would be worse if I didn't,” she said.

“Worse for who exactly?”

“If I hide from the public, I look guilty,” she said.

It did not matter that she
was
.

“Choosing safety is not hiding,” Hades replied.

“You said I was safe,” she pointed out.

His grip on her tightened. “That is not the point.”

“I will not give Theseus the benefit of seeing me
run,” she said, though she had to admit, she wasn't sure she was ready to see the demigod again. When she thought about it, her heart felt like it was going to jump out of her chest. “That is what he wants.”

“Theseus wants everything,” said Hades. “He does not care if you run or not. He can manipulate either choice you make.”

Persephone's stomach knotted. “Those are not comforting words, Hades.”

“I do not know that I can offer comfort where Theseus is concerned.”

“Are you all right, Seph?”

Persephone turned her head to see that Apollo had approached Hades's chariot. He was dressed in a gold breastplate and leather ptergues. She had seen him clad similarly in the past when he trained at the palaestra with Ajax and other heroes.

“I am all right,” she said and let her gaze shift past him. “Where is Ajax?”

“He is farther back in line,” said Apollo. “He will enter with the other heroes after the demigods.”

Persephone shuddered. “I hate that he must walk in the shadow of Theseus.”

“I am not keen on the arrangement,” he said. “But it is tradition.”

Persephone wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn't.

“Will you join the games, Hades?” Apollo asked.

“No,” Hades said. “Few wish to battle death.”

“I think Theseus and his band of jackasses would like a go,” said Apollo.

Persephone frowned. “Are you participating, Apollo?”

“I am,” he said. “Single combat.”

“As a mortal, right?”

“No,” he said. His mouth was tight, as if the suggestion insulted him. “I am a god. I will fight as one.”

“But, Apollo—”

“I will be fine, Persephone,” said Apollo. “Despite having no powers, I still have my strength. It would be unfair to fight mere mortals.”

A shrill whistle sounded, a signal for the gods to ready their chariots.

“Wish me luck?” he asked.

“You always have my luck,” said Persephone, but she would also fear for him, not knowing what, if anything, Theseus and his men had planned.

Apollo grinned and sauntered off, returning to his chariot.

“I do not like this,” Persephone said as Hades tugged on the reins, urging the chariot forward. “He has no power.”

“Apollo does not rely on magic in battle,” said Hades. “He will be fine.”

She tried to take comfort in his words, but as they entered the vaulted corridor of the stadium, her anxiety only grew worse. The crowd already sounded like a storm, thundering all around them, and they were not even on the arena floor.

She kept her gaze on Ares as he left the shade of the tunnel, the sun glimmering off his golden armor, the plume of red feathers coming out of his helm like fire, spilling down his back. He lifted his spear into the air—the same one he had used to pin Hades to the ground.

As the God of War guided his chariot, he glanced
back at her, a cynical smile on his face.

And suddenly it was their turn.

It was so bright, Persephone could barely keep her eyes open as they emerged from the shadow. It seemed to her that the sun was brighter and hotter in the aftermath of her mother's storm. Even now, she could feel its rays burning her skin. She blinked, eyes watering, as she brought her hand up to shield her face, emerging to a chorus of noise.

She could not distinguish the sounds—if they were cheers or jeers—but it did not really matter because she could feel the hostility in the air. Eventually, as her vision adjusted, she could see it in the angry, red-faced mortals shouting from the stands, their fingers curled into shaking fists, and while there were some who declared their love, the hate seemed far louder. Though as Hades followed the line of chariots to the footpath surrounding the dusty floor of the stadium, the crowd quieted.

Persephone glanced back at her husband. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Putting the fear of death within them,” he said.

“I do not want their devotion to be born out of fear,” said Persephone.

Hades said nothing, but she did not need his words. Mostly she was just expressing her own fear—that she would never regain the trust of the mortal world.

Hades brought the chariot to a stop, and Persephone let her hands relax, realizing how hard she had been gripping its edge as she stretched her fingers. Hades took a step back, allowing her the space to turn and face him. He took her hands in his and kissed them, threads of healing warmth easing the ache.

She was not sure why she blushed. She was used to
Hades performing far more lascivious acts, but there was something about the quiet brush of his lips she could feel deep in her gut.

He offered a small smile, as if he could sense the fire he had lit within her, and took a step down from the chariot.

“Let me help you,” he said, looking up at her. His hands were already on her waist, his face level with her breasts, which he made sure to brush with his chin.

“You know I will not deny you,” she said.

He lifted her, and when he set her down, he let her slide down his body. She felt every hard inch of him. She flushed again, holding his gaze.

“I know what you are doing,” she said.

“And what is that?” he asked.

“You are hoping I will be aroused by your touch and ask to leave,” she said.

“And are you?” he asked. “Aroused?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I am not leaving, Hades,” she said.

“We do not have to leave,” he said. “I can fuck you anywhere.”

“You two are so gross,” said Hermes as he sauntered by, dressed in gold armor and wearing a gold circlet with wings.

“What's wrong, Hermes?” said Hades. “Do you want me to fuck you too?”

The God of Trickery stumbled going up the steps and into the stands. Hades chuckled, but his amusement faded when his gaze returned to Persephone.

“That was unkind,” she said.

“So were his words,” said Hades.

“He was joking.”

Hades snickered. “So was I.”

She rolled her eyes and moved past him, following the gods into the stadium. Hades remained close, a physical shadow. They passed the first row of gods where Aphrodite and Hephaestus sat beside Apollo and Artemis. She had expected the goddess's disdain, as none of their previous interactions had gone well, and according to Aphrodite, Artemis had accepted Zeus's call to bring Persephone to him in chains, all for a title and shield, though it did not seem that she had attempted her mission. Persephone wondered if Apollo had something to do with that.

She held Artemis's gaze as she passed, sliding into the second row. With dread, Persephone realized she was seated in front of Hera, who sat in one of two throne-like seats, obviously intended for the King and Queen of the Gods, though the God of the Sky was noticeably absent.

Persephone wondered if all the gods knew what had befallen Zeus. Did they feel like the rest of them? Conflicted?

Hera was already seated, her shrewd gaze fixed on Persephone. She stared back and offered a single nod.

“You know this area is reserved for Olympians only,” said Ares.

“How do you become an Olympian, Ares?” Persephone asked. “Is it when you defeat one in battle?”

Hermes put his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Burn!”

“She didn't burn me, you imbecile!” Ares snapped.

“I didn't mean literally,” said Hermes. “Who's the
imbecile now?”

Hades placed a hand on Persephone's shoulder and slid past her to sit on her left, between her and Ares. Thankfully, Hermes sat on her right. She leaned over, whispering, “How are Olympians chosen?”

She did not know, because since the gods had won the Titanomachy, the Olympians had never changed—never died.

“Well, first, one of us would have to die,” he said. “And then I suppose Zeus would choose.”

Persephone glanced over her shoulder to where Hera loomed behind her. “And if Zeus cannot?”

“Then the responsibility would fall to Hera,” he said. “But that has never happened.”

The way Hermes spoke, it almost sounded like he believed the twelve would never die, even Zeus who apparently hung in the sky, though as she glanced up, all she could see was a thick, bright haze.

Suddenly, the crowd's roar drew her attention back to the entrance where the demigods were now filing into the stadium. Persephone's heart felt like it was pounding throughout her whole body. She held her breath, waiting to catch sight of Theseus, hoping she would be able to control her reaction to the demigod who had stolen her peace, but she couldn't.

He led the group, flanked by a pair of demigods on either side. His eyes were bright, familiar even from a distance. He kept a wide smile on his face—charming, mortals would likely call it—and waved to the crowd.

Hermes leaned over. “He doesn't look too upset about his wife and baby.”

Persephone's stomach knotted, and a flood of
emotion racked her body—hatred so visceral, her eyes stung with tears, but there was also fear. It trembled within her, shaking her to her core. She squeezed her hands into fists to hide it.

Then Hades's hand covered hers, and slowly, the panic began to ebb.

Her gaze shifted to the others who marched besideTheseus. She only recognized Sandros.

“Who are the others?” Persephone asked.

She watched Hades's face as he spoke, his hatred of them evident.

“The two on his left are Kai and Sandros. The two on his right are Damian and Machaon. He calls them high lords.”

“High lords. That's the title given to leaders within the organization of Triad, right?” Persephone asked.

“Yes,” said Hades. “It means nothing save that it provides us with a list of who to target first.”

Persephone studied each one, able to identify their parentage from a distance. Kai looked like Theseus, which meant he was a descendant of Poseidon. Sandros had Zeus's striking eyes.

“Is…Machaon…Apollo's son?”

Hermes snorted. “Not a son but a grandson.”

“And the one you called Damian?”

“He is the son of Thetis, a water goddess.”

She continued to watch them, able to identify members of Triad by a triangle pin they wore that caught the light as they moved.

“Those are new,” said Persephone, concerned. Before, members of Triad were far more discreet, which made sense, given that their agenda was mainly against
the gods. Wearing such a symbol communicated an element of pride in their rebellion.