Mage of waycross a slice.., p.4
Crown of Olympus: The Hades Trials — Book I, page 4
I couldn’t remember the last time my belly hurt from the intensity of a laugh, but it did now. I laughed until tears leaked from my eyes and my stomach cramped. Charon, still horrified, did not take his eyes off the offending creature, lest it reappear atop his head.
His scowl deepened as I gently placed the spider upon my shoulder and bent to collect the strewn cards, still sniggering.
“Cruel, vicious thing,” he accused.
“I’ve been called worse,” I replied, smirking as I slid a card his way.
“And you’ve earned worse,” he quipped, arching a fair brow. His chagrin faded, features sobering in an instant. “You’ll do worse, Nyss. You'll face worse, if you go through with these trials.”
“I have to, Char. Or they’ll start asking why Hades himself isn’t competing.”
Charon grimaced. “Right, well… You can’t exactly tell them where he went, now can you?”
“There’s another thing to consider,” I began. “You heard Zeus. The prophecy—”
“Fuck the prophecy,” Charon snapped, slamming a hand down. “Fuck the Fates, and the gods, and the realms!” His voice shook with fury, cheeks flushed, eyes dark.
I placed my hand gently beside his, waiting — silently imploring him to just look at me.
“I have to,” I repeated quietly. “You weren’t there when the crown almost settled on my head. You didn’t feel the weight of it, how fucking heavy fate felt.” I implored him to listen, to try and understand. “It felt like it screamed at me. Begged me to take it. To earn it. To set things right.”
He finally looked up, pale blue eyes shuttering.
“You know how dangerous this is, right?” He leaned in, head tilted, brows drawn. “How easy it would be for any one of them to take vengeance for Zeus’ sentencing? How his son might want a poetic justice of his own making?”
I nodded. I knew the danger all too well.
“Any one of them would be glad to send you right back here. Only, instead of my beautiful best friend — alive, safe, and whole — begging me to dance, or pestering me to play Ferryman… I’ll be the one ferrying you across the River as nothing more than a wisp of a soul.”
Charon reached out, his hand hovering over my arm like he was fighting to maintain my invisible boundary. Then, with a sharp motion, his fingers flared and he pulled away, hand roughly raking through his untameable mane instead.
“Lucky I have you by my side then,” I said quietly.
“That’s exactly my point, though!” he yelled, shooting to his feet, and began pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. “Nyss, I can’t protect you in the trials. I can’t save you or help from the sidelines. All I can do is stand idly by, twiddling my fucking thumbs, watching as you suffer.”
His voice broke on the last word and his face crumpled.
I unfurled slowly, approaching him as cautiously as I would a trapped animal.
Tentatively, I reached out and tugged gently on a lock of his wavy blonde hair.
Charon’s devastated face met mine through the curtain of his unruly mop, and we both watched as the strands in my grasp withered to white, their colour and vibrance stolen by my touch. I dropped them quickly. The colour returned, but my heart twisted painfully in my chest.
I was forever withdrawing, forever mourning the lost moments and intimacies I could never have.
“I don’t need your protection, Char. I am my own weapon,” I said sadly. “I just need you in my corner, giving me a soft place to land. Like you always do.”
“Zeus’ murderer is still roaming around up there, too,” he choked out.
“I know.”
He sighed resignedly. “Just promise me you’ll be safe?”
“I promise I’ll try,” I told him, though we both knew it all came down to the whims of fate, regardless of what promises we might make.
He bent and pressed the ghost of a kiss to the top of my head, a silent plea woven into the faintest of touches. Without another word, Charon exited the room, the weight of his worry settling upon my shoulders.
Hermes had given us a week to prepare for the first trial. One week of studying, training, and fraternising with the enemy. We each had the unique opportunity to study our competition up close: to learn their weaknesses and how to exploit them; to demonstrate our strengths and remind them why they should avoid fucking with us.
For me, that meant nobody wanted to come within twenty feet. Everyone knew I was my father’s daughter. Word had spread years ago about the manifestation of my gifts, how they’d exploded out of me and left literal casualties in their wake.
I was dangerous. They all knew it.
At least I didn’t have to deal with awkward small talk.
The newly constructed training arena rang with the sounds of clashing steel, huffed breaths, and feet pounding against the hard earth. Champions sparred, ran laps of the stadium, or honed their weapon skills in the open centre.
Aphrodite ran the track alongside Hestia. Athena moved through a series of slow stretches. The sons of Zeus and Poseidon sparred on the mats. Unfortunately for Leander, it appeared to be a very one-sided match. The brooding white-haired storm-wielder seemed to be holding back, yet still had the son of the sea in a headlock, and enough spare focus to glance up and grin at me while doing it.
Cocky bastard.
I noted Artemis standing next to a target in the arena’s heart, watching her daughter move with the kind of effortless grace that came from years of training. The girl loosed three arrows in quick succession, each silver projectile thudding dead-centre.
Apollo grinned and immediately followed suit — his last golden arrow splitting one of her silver ones right down the shaft.
Impressive.
Ares’ champion, apparently unimpressed, launched his spear like a javelin. It tore through the air, whistling faintly, and sank deep into the very same bullseye, knocking the arrows to the ground. The twins whirled around, their expressions as opposite as night and day. Artemis scowled while Apollo beamed at the red-haired spear-thrower.
My dark brows lifted higher.
I take it back — that was impressive.
The nameless god winked at me and blew a fiery kiss. It singed the air as it passed, brushing my cheek with heat. A blush bloomed across my skin, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the heated kiss or his attention. I didn’t care to analyse.
I chose to ignore both the god and my body’s reaction to him. Taking Athena’s lead, I eased through my usual series of stretches. It felt good to be moving and alleviating some of the restless energy I’d unwittingly held onto. My muscles protested at first, but I welcomed the burn, grateful for the comfort of familiarity.
As I bent to grasp my toes, I felt the prickle of lingering stares. My leather-clad ass was squarely on display for half the arena. A knowing smirk pulled at my lips.
Impressive, yet still male.
I looked up and caught the eye of a beautiful brunette trainer. Unashamed, she shot me a wink before resuming her sparring.
And female, apparently.
I grinned, fully letting that one go to my head.
Charon moved into position opposite me and tossed a wickedly sharp blade my way. I twirled it in my hand, testing the weight. It was no shadow blade, but it would do.
Gods had no use for practice blades — wood could not withstand our strength, and wounds from steel healed too fast to matter. Our gifts pulsed through our veins, stitching us back together almost as soon as we were cut.
By the age of maturity, around twenty-five, we were virtually impossible to kill. The only exceptions thus far: a Titan-forged weapon or a death-wielder’s power. Thankfully, those were extremely rare. They’d presumably all been destroyed after the war, and the Titans themselves were locked away in the deepest trench of Tartarus for millennia.
I briefly wondered which artefact — and which god — had managed to take out Zeus. It made no sense to kill the King of Gods and risk another more egomaniacal figure taking his place. Or to risk triggering the Ascension Rite — not unless they would benefit from doing so.
Unless Zeus had wronged them. In that case, the list of suspects was miles long.
A sharp sting across my forearm snapped me back to the present. Charon quirked his cocky brow, coaxing a scowl in return.
“Try to keep up,” he teased.
I feinted left, but he moved with me. My sword slashed through empty air, meeting no resistance; Charon was already whirling, blade moving with the surety of someone who knew my every manoeuvre before I made it.
Because he did.
He was my instructor and training partner, the one who had drilled every skill, every instinct, every reaction into my arsenal. Not just because the Underworld was short on subjects, and the list of those willing to spar with the daughter of Death was even shorter, but because he was one of the best the three realms had to offer. No one had bested Charon in years. Granted, he had not pitched himself against the likes of Athena or Ares, but he had surpassed my father.
The fact that he had honed me like any other weapon also meant I knew his habits just as intimately as he knew mine. We were hewn from the same cloth, he and I. Forged by the same upbringing, the same grief, the same steel.
I darted forward, narrowly avoiding the strike meant for my thigh, and simultaneously drove my sword upwards, aiming for his reinforced bronze chest plate. Charon parried, metal clattering against metal as we traded a flurry of quick blows. My chest heaved. Muscles burned. My arms reverberated with the shock of each clash.
We were too evenly matched. Neither could gain the upper hand. It was a well-rehearsed dance of mind just as much as body, and we flowed like water — spinning and clashing with a smooth precision that bordered on choreography.
Maybe it was, thanks to two decades of training.
As per usual, Charon’s footwork was impeccable. He dodged and weaved past my every attack, lithely traipsing around the mat. I jabbed. He sidestepped, as elegant and fluid as the River Styx.
I was so busy admiring his easy grace that I almost missed the sharp slash aimed at my shoulder. Ducking just in time, I felt the breeze from his blade slice through the air above my head, severing the stray ends of my braid.
“Hey!” I chastised.
He smirked, watching the strands float to the floor.
“I did not sign up for a haircut.”
My eyes narrowed. I twisted, sweeping my leg out in a sharp, vicious arc. My boot connected strongly with his calves, and gravity did the rest, dropping him to the ground with a satisfying huff.
It was my turn to grin.
“Maybe I’m not the one who needs to keep up,” I said, laughing.
Charon jumped up with a growl, twirling his sword and readying himself for our final waltz.
I swung — a sharp, angled strike aimed at his hip. Predictably, he deflected, the clash of weapons ringing out in the sudden hush surrounding us. I lunged again, forcing his guard higher, then I stepped unexpectedly into his space.
In my free hand, I conjured a dagger made of shadow. Its sharp tip now pressed against his ribcage.
But his blade was already at my throat.
A perfect stalemate.
Charon relented first. Breathing heavily, he slowly withdrew the sword from my neck. The dagger vanished from my palm, melting into the lines of my hand like it had never existed.
I broke eye contact, and only then noticed how quiet the arena had become. Our breaths were suddenly a little too loud.
Our heads darted around in sync. Apparently, we had become this evening’s entertainment.
Every champion and their partner had stopped. Gods and goddesses alike had gone still, their eyes glued to our battle, on the brutal efficiency of our sparring. Our skills were too brazen to ignore. We had put on one hell of a show, and like all good art, our audience didn’t know what to make of it.
Murmurs rippled between them. Expressions ranged from begrudging respect to outright contempt. Ares’ champion grinned like a madman beside Zeus’ son, who loomed half a foot taller and glared down at us with arms crossed over his absurdly large chest.
“Your footwork still needs attention,” Charon said, playfully tapping my ankle with the flat of his sword. “But it’s your eyes that get you in trouble. They give your every move away, like an open book. Perhaps tonight you can practice not skewering someone alive with a look,” he added with a laugh.
I glanced around as the others packed quickly and left. No doubt hurrying home to ready themselves for this evening’s arduous banquet after we’d stolen a portion of their primping time.
“Now what would be the fun in that?” I replied coyly.
A roguish grin crossed my face as I felt the familiar relief of releasing my shadows. I took Charon’s extended elbow, and together we stepped through the shadow portal, letting the darkness swallow us whole. Taking us home. To where we were the things that went bump in the night.
CHAPTER 5
Nyssa
The Parthenon had been completely transformed in our absence. Where yesterday it was a clinically pristine council chamber, tonight there was scarcely room to move.
An extravagantly decorated table now dominated the central space, laden with gilded dinnerware, heaped platters of food, and overflowing pitchers of wine. It flowed from the open balcony doors all the way down to the entryway, long enough to seat every god, goddess, champion, and esteemed guest.
All of whom were starving — not for food, but for power.
A warm breeze passed through the open space, the air suddenly heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. One by one, as if summoned by some unheard signal, gods and goddesses slowly made their way to the table. Some moved without ceasing their conversations, others held back, assessing their options with quiet calculation.
I knew I was not welcome at their table. They bemoaned the idea of sharing food and drink with children of the Underworld. Every cool glare sent our way only hardened my resolve to sow as much discord as I was able to in the time I was here.
One side of my lips tugged upward as I claimed the seat at the heart of their feast — dead centre of their abundant table. The decision was met with wide eyes and gasps of disbelief.
Much to Hera’s obvious disdain, Charon slid in next to me and poured us both generous goblets of wine. We exchanged mischievous grins and waited for the chaos to unfold — an inevitability.
There was nothing these snooty Olympians hated more than the feeling of being slighted, and I’d just given them all the divine equivalent of a middle finger. By claiming the central seat, I knew Hera would not deign to sit opposite me, effectively ousting the ex-Queen from her own event. She clambered to find the next best alternative — the head of the table — however, with the seating arrangements fixed, there were no chairs placed at either end. She instead settled for the chair as far to our right as she could manage. Poseidon sat opposite her, with his son beside him.
Arm in arm, Hestia and Athena placed themselves at the other end, murmuring quietly. Apollo, Artemis, and her daughter opted to join them. Aphrodite boldly claimed the seat opposite Charon, a string of infatuated admirers trailing behind her like little ducklings.
I could see the beginnings of small alliances forming, like gravitating to like. Charon and I sat as an island between them all. Eventually, though, the seats surrounding us became the only ones available.
Just in time for Ares to stalk in, his red-headed champion close behind. It was then I noticed the similarities between them — this was undoubtedly a son. Ares wedged himself between Hera and Hermes, ironically jostling the already-disgruntled god of travel further down the table.
Ares’ son, however, broke away as soon as he spotted the empty seat to my left. His playful grin never faltered as he dropped into it, sprawling out comfortably in that infuriating, spread-legged way only men can seem to comfortably execute. His right leg landed dangerously close to my left, heat radiating off him in waves, even through our layers of clothing.
This god was fiery in more ways than one, it seemed.
He’s got more balls than I expected from a child of Ares, I conceded.
“Good evening, darling,” he purred, his voice a deep, rolling rumble, as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of flame and was still simmering from the inside out. “You’re looking positively delicious tonight.”
“Oh, barbecue boy,” I began dryly. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “It was no cheap joke. I’d much rather taste you than anything on this table,” he smirked, eyes dropping suggestively to my upper thighs. “In fact, I’d much rather taste you on this table.”
Inwardly I flinched, caught somewhere between shock and intrigue. Outwardly, I pursed my lips, determined to portray the contempt I knew I should be feeling. I waited a moment before replying, needing the time to compose myself.
“Hmm. You’re clearly a son of Ares, but which one exactly?” I asked, raising a dark brow.
I guess I should have been worried when his grin deepened, amber eyes flickering with wicked heat.
“Ah, yes. You’re right. Where are my manners?” He leaned, speaking in a tone a few levels above a whisper. “You really should know the name you’ll be screaming when I make you come so hard you forget your own.”
Charon choked on his wine, dark red liquid spraying across the white linen tablecloth. One of Aphrodite’s ducklings recoiled in horror. The goddess of desire merely grinned, clearly delighted.
My lips parted for an entire second before I snapped my jaw shut with an audible click.
The god leaned back, candlelight dancing within his irises. “I’m Aros,” he said smoothly, hands locking behind his head. “God of war and violence, remarkable flame-wielder, superb spearman, and possessor of very talented fingers.” He wiggled them suggestively from behind his mane of flame-red hair.
“Boy, Daddy had a hard time with letters the day you were born, huh?” I teased, unable to resist the jab — still utterly clueless how to respond to… all of that.
