Never lovelier, p.7
Never Lovelier, page 7
“I know.”
I know and yet, his telling me lifts some invisible weight from my stomach, smooths the burning in my chest.
His hands are still on me, wrapped possessively over my hips. His voice lowers. “Have you stopped bleeding?”
I crane harder, helpless, as his fingers sift into my hair.
I nod.
Something bumps me, reminiscent of a rush of cold air when freezer frost hits you during a midnight ice cream binge. It blasts against my body, and I fight my response to jerk away. Instead, I let it roll over me, tickle the bits of skin still exposed.
Sin takes hold of my hair at my nape, his other hand staying at my waist as his eyes fasten to my mouth. There’s a small crease in his brow, like dented gold. “What’d you find in Oberlin’s office?”
His hand is strong and sure, his voice lovely.
“I set fire to his office,” I whisper.
“You’re too smart to burn it without reading, darling. Tell me and …” His fingers pull slightly on my hair to end his sentence, a dash of pain that sends bolts of pleasure down my body.
He lowers his head, changing from looming to crowding, cold to hot. The end of his nose brushes over mine. His eyes are so purple, they remind me of the blue sparks of Oberlin’s prod.
I shouldn’t like the comparison.
“Sin,” Atlas warns in a whisper.
From the corner of my eye I see he’s standing now, and the others have closed in, positioned in a battle formation. Flanked, turned slightly.
“Don’t look at them,” Sin whispers against my lips, coasting fingers up my ribs. “I bet you taste like strawberries. Tart, juicy sugar on my tongue.”
I want to say duh, what else would I taste like, but my mind’s playing tricks on me, running in the background, scanning the documents I memorized before destroying. The names, the addresses. The events.
His hand tightens in my hair, switching from soft to rough and his grip slides from my waist to my ass as he locks our bodies together. Murmurs, “Give in to me, dove. Tell me your secrets, and we could …”
Then his lips are on mine.
That ruins it.
Squishes our little dance as quick as drawing a razor blade over violin strings.
The firm press of his mouth is cluttered with pain and trauma and violence, hidden beneath tendrils of goosebumps, lovely pants, and dolloped pupils.
Three of his knives slot in my fingers amidst the distraction and when I find a fourth, I bend forward, carving a streak into the hard side of his torso.
He hisses, but his lips don’t stop the agony, his hands pin me roughly. His mouth slants and I bite him hard as I can, teeth digging in his lower lip as I slam my foot into his instep, mark a second slash over his bare chest and kick him backward.
He staggers back two, three steps. He’s heaving, eyes wild as he reaches for his knives, growls when he discovers only two left. Shiny pink blood dribbles down his chin.
Furious again.
Now if this male had kissed me …
“Everybody take a second to breathe.” Atlas instructs with his gun pointed at the ground, his finger light on the trigger.
“Unload it,” I hiss, switching to target the leader with a ferocious glare. “I’ve four knives that I can turn into four bodies before you can aim.”
“Try it,” Sin’s hissing again. “I dare you.”
“Stop!” Atlas has inflection at last. He raises the gun at Sin. “Stop and sit and shut the fuck up. I told you not to push her.”
“She’ll kill us either way. Might as well try.”
Drake, the still one, huffs his irritation and I agree.
“Furies cannot lie, Sin. She agreed to talk with us, now let her,” Atlas orders roughly.
Perhaps not as smart as originally assessed.
“Excuse him,” he beseeches me. “He’s usually better behaved.”
“Not since I’ve known him.”
“I’m right here,” Sin’s a growling, bloody mess.
“Quiet,” I snap, “The grown-ups are talking.”
The edge of Atlas’s mouth almost lifts. I press my feet into the dirty wood floors, deciding I’ll hit him from the side, send him flying across the room and knocking into the big, accented one while I—
“She won’t kill us unless we deserve it,” Atlas interrupts my plotting. “It’s the code of the Furies. They do not kill aimlessly. They’re moral creatures.”
I think of Evan’s choked sobs next to me.
It’s folklore that we’re the purveyors of good and evil, like Themis's scales.
I’m not going to correct him.
Atlas strips the mag from his gun, knocks the bullet from the chamber, and drops them into his pocket. A faux show of kinship. He nods at the table for me to sit and offers, somewhat kindly, “It’s been a long time since Hades released a Fury from his domain.”
“She’s not a Fury.” Sin’s mopping his chest with paper towels, turned away from us, vibrating with anger. “She’s a Goddess. She bleeds silver.”
A Goddess?
Delight surges through me. He confused me for a Goddess?
No, reality Nat says, he’s a sweet talker, a manipulator.
I sit down, wrapping the ends of Sin’s sleeves over my palms, warm for the first time in days. Perhaps it’s out of gratitude that I explain, “Furies were born of Divine blood and do not commune with other creatures. Their lines are pure ichor.”
“Furies are fanged and winged and have webbed feet. They skulk through the Underworld because Zeus banished them. You—you.” Sin stares at me, vicious as his words. “You’re not a Fury. You can’t be. You—you’re a Goddess.”
Again pleasure rushes me.
I squash it, focus on the insult. “That negative connotation is exactly why I prefer our given name, not the one assigned to us by ignorant males.”
“Erinyes,” Drake says.
I tip my head at him, trying to decide when to kill him, before or after the big one. His aura is the same matte black, but his will to fight seems lesser. “Do you speak Greek?”
“Sin taught us,” Bigfoot says, stepping forward, digging through his wallet and smoothing a crisp five-dollar bill down in front of me. “For you,” he says. “A gift. Maybe you can buy some shoes.”
Sin groans and buries his face in his hands. Atlas navy eyes almost roll. Drake is still as stone as Lev backs away slowly, hands upturned.
They’re trying not to antagonize me. And all they can think of is a fiver and awkward silence.
They’re doomed.
“I am a centurion of the Erinyes,” I tell them, “Natasa of Megaera’s line. And what your leader says is true. The Erinyes only harm those who inflict harm.”
I smile, my best Theia impression, sunshine and teeth and stinging cheeks.
The Blackguard let out a breath, fear easing, worry evaporating.
I’m not really lying, but as far as I’m concerned, those black necklaces are blinking Pass Go, Collect two hundred dollars kill signs.
Their deaths will be my golden ticket to returning home.
10
Sin
torn asunder by a sharp and tender wit
It’s commonplace, almost expected, for the children of Gods to study the classics: literature, music, and war. They receive the finest tutors and as affinities arise, narrow their studies. Heracles maiming his lyre tutor launched him into battle study.
When I seduced my war tutor, Hef knew precisely what to do with me.
Cut me off.
No more lessons, no more tutors or games of Gods. He brought me to his workshop and home again, kept me secluded, my ability a secret. Called it trouble. Believed only misery could come of my gift.
He was the most universally disliked male on Olympus.
Imagine having him as your role model.
Imagine how strongly you’d crave to be liked if you did.
“Now she’s digging a hole,” Lev says, continuing his play-by-play, nose touching the window. He turns abruptly, wide palm spreading over the glass to face us. “Is that how you reach the Underworld or am I an idiot?”
Andromeda Porter, the most skilled thief in the three realms, smirks from the couch, not pausing her game of Mario Kart to snark. “Yes. That’s why every basement is haunted.”
“Is she for real?”
“Meda.” Atlas snaps his fingers at her and flips on the electric kettle beside the fridge. “Stop scaring him. Get away from the window, Mikhailov. Let our guest have privacy.”
I glare at my surroundings, wishing open floor plans would go back out of style so I could rage in privacy.
Or at least not within spitting distance of a tacky cowboy themed photo backdrop, complete with painted cactuses, a dusky orange sunset, and old school word-art reading: The Last Ride.
Who besides us has a need for downtown rentals with seven bedrooms, private entrances, and a comprehensive cleaning fee? Bachelorette parties.
I tell Lev, “I gave her three minutes alone, and she found a gun, so I’m not sure we should really take eyes off the homicidal rage machine in our backyard.”
I take a swig from my bottle of Barolo, but before I can truly savor the bittersweet taste, Atlas seizes it. “Cut the shit-talking.” His navy eyes flicker to the backyard where our resident rage-filled Fury is lurking. “Or she’ll cut your throat.”
I scoff, wiping dark red from my lower lip and sucking it into my mouth to cover the mix of emotions swirling between my brothers. “What? We’re supposed to pretend to be perfect, upstanding citizens for her? She crucified a male. She burned him to death, and she laughed while she did it!”
Filling his teacup, Atlas merely shrugs. “She’s of Hades,” he explains, settling at the kitchen island, a shortbread caught between his lips.
“So the fuck what? She shot me.”
“So they have different standards for suffering. For all we know, that’s a custom.”
Smashing her controller to turn a red-eyed Yoshi into a soaring bullet, Meda chimes, “Yeah, because they’re fucking psychos.”
Luke kicks Meda’s studded boots off the coffee table and wipes the sweat gathered at his temple. “No feet on the furniture. I want our deposit back. Who took all the towels? I requested ten, and there’s none in the closet. If the renter gives me a bad rating, we’re stuck with hotels and they have rules, like no pets, and—”
“Who has pets?” Lev asks.
Meda kills King Boo on Rainbow Road. The game’s a Rune modified version that involves massacre and mayhem. “He’s talking about you, Mikhailov.”
“All of you,” Luke corrects, slinging a towel around his neck, barely out of breath despite a grueling workout. “You’re like animals. Or toddlers. Walking into the lobby drenched in blood, bullets falling out of you.” He scrapes a hand over his shaved head, and freezes. Sidesteps to stare past Lev. “Is the Fury ripping up the grass? Fuck, my rating’s gonna plummet.”
Atlas slice me a silent look and I dutifully stalk to Luke, setting a hand on his bulky shoulder and thinking of calm. For mortals it takes only a touch, a few words. “All will be well, Luke. Rune will forge you a perfect five stars. I’ll write reviews. Positive, raving, salacious reviews.”
Tension falls from Luke's face, softening the rugged arches of his cheeks, lightening the shadows under his eyes.
He collapses next to Meda, thigh brushing hers, their elbows near kissing.
If anyone else tried to sit so close, they’d get a Wii remote lodged in their throats, but Meda has a soft spot for the mortal.
Sometimes I taste pity on her tongue when she refuses him, but more often it’s jealousy.
Because Luke has never suffered the sting of ichor in his veins like the rest of us or because he has no curse holding him hostage, I don’t know. But he chooses to chase after his desires. Even if they are a female so out of his reach, she might as well share blood with Hera.
In boxer braids and suede Adidas sweats rolled thrice at the ankles and wrists, Meda tastes of poppy seeds and simmering umber. On edge, hiding it. “I’ll steal grass from the neighbors,” she whispers, carefully patting his knee.
Somehow, her words have more of a calming effect than mine. The slab of hard muscle and tattoo sinks into the cushions like a warm marshmallow.
Shaved mint creeps into my throat.
Arousal.
Nabbing my bottle back from Atlas, I wash my mouth out with thick tannins of red wine, bottle tipped end over top to keep from looking at the backyard, at the glow of the Airbnb’s security lights and the dark, lithe shadow moving in them.
When Atlas invited Natasa home, I’d guessed he’d be eating bullet soup, not on the receiving end of a smile.
Different from the one she gave me as she hitched her dress up her thighs.
This one matched the one when she beat me, when she fought the compulsion of my seduction and stole my blades.
Again.
At the bar, I’d thrown enough arousal in the air to give her an immaculate orgasm, to make her salivate and whimper and instead, she’d bitten me hard enough to draw blood.
Furies are not Olympians. They’re Titans. The original Gods. More powerful. More rigid. There’s a reason the Olympians overthrew they're creators.
“She’s a creature of Hades,” I argue, ready to lock the doors and pretend we’re not home. “That’s enough reason to get the fuck away.”
From his spot on the floor, Zeke nods, twisting an unsolved Rubik’s cube between his fingers. “Are toddlers frequently smeared in blood?”
His stark white hair is mashed under a Rangers ballcap, but the lack of natural pigment on his body isn’t why he’s hiding indoors. It’s the scars on his face, one raised white line over each eye. Only a God can scar an immortal, and only an oracle is supposed to see the future.
But Zeke’s always been an exception to rules.
“Hades,” I repeat to keep us on track, turning to Atlas. “Remember him? The motherfucker who forced his wife to ingest pomegranate seeds so she literally could not leave him. He’s the role model down there. Real gentleman.” I blow a breath against the opening of the bottle and listen for the hum of glass, drag my gaze to the window, to Natasa kneeling in the dirt. “Why doesn’t she throw knives at him?”
And how come she hadn’t even swayed with me?
For seconds, I’d thought my power was sinking claws into her skin. The tempting graze of her fingers, those big brown eyes, lips soft and inviting. I’d wanted her.
My Goddess.
My ring had burned, my heart—
Atlas’s cup dings against his saucer. “Many a female have thrown knives at you with better results. Why is she different?”
“Off the top of my head, they didn’t follow me home, trick my brothers into docility, and oh yeah, I’d already slept with all of them.”
“Ahh, you wish to bed her.”
I’m not blind, of course I do.
Still, admitting as much feels pathetic, so I indulge in another pull of the vintage and roll my eyes like Atlas’s missed my point entirely. “She doesn’t need us.”
That’s the crux of it.
She didn’t need me to break her free from Oberlin.
She didn’t need help cutting him apart or blasting his information.
She didn’t need help getting food at the bar, or facing down half of the Blackguard. She didn’t even need me when we got home and I offered to show which of the shower gels smelled best.
As a child, Hef taught me the who’s who of creatures to avoid.
Furies topped the list.
Arbiters of hate, they feast on bad deeds like they’re the sweetest ambrosia.
I didn’t think they’d be so … intoxicating.
Atlas shakes his head. “We need her.”
“For what? Pyrotechnics? Synchronized slaying? She’s—”
“You have been searching for months and gotten nowhere.”
“Nowhere is better than digging our own fucking graves. Which will be the least she’ll do to us.”
“Singing my praises?” Nat’s voice is soft, lighter than I’ve heard it as she pads muddy feet across the carpet. The sliding doors hang open behind her, letting in the humid night air and the hum of crickets. “I dug that hole special for you.” She smirks, hands and wrists caked in mud. “You should fit if I cook you down in acid first.”
I resist the urge to clear a slash of dirt off her cheek. “I’m told I go better with a coconut oil and cream.”
“Whatever covers up the natural foul taste.”
“I recall you sinking your teeth in.”
The barest hint of an almost-smile teases her lips. “I recall spitting.”
Again, the room around us is quiet.
A team of warriors come to heel.
It’s me, I realize, they don’t know what to do with me. Fun, upbeat Sin. Sin who plays hard and plays harder.
With Natasa, I’m angry. Rotten.
Hungry.
They don’t know what happened.
Do I? I take another swig, loathe to find citrus sticking on my tongue. “Next time, I’d advise you to swallow.”
She wipes a silver dagger over her thigh, marking a dark streak of mud. “Males and their egos. As if next time you touch me, I won’t kill you.”
“I’m not easy to kill.”
Her eyes spark, but she places attention on Atlas and his tea, soaking me with so much sourness my skin tightens.
Trembles.
Look at me, I want to say. Not Atlas. Me. I saw you first. I’m who you asked for help.
The curse hisses over my wrists and around my neck, begging me to move toward her. Probably hopes she’ll make good on her promise. One less Blackguard.
Crushing the urge to be near her, I ask, “Did you dress up for me, darling?”
Fitted, pure gold vambraces cover her from wrists to elbows, gleaming. Meda loves to sparkle, but she’s not the sort to share.
Acquiring clothes from the Blackguard’s thief was struggle enough, and now I realize why.
They’ll never fit her again.
Meda is small and slight, built to maneuver tiny, awkward places. To be unseen and float like air.
