“He can’t do that,” Persephone leaned forward, looking to Hermes. “Can he?”
The God of Mischief shrugged. “There aren’t really rules. Is it fair? No.”
She suddenly understood what Hermes meant when he’d described Hector as forceful.
Her attention returned to the track.
Hector continued to lash Ajax until he managed to latch onto the whip and jerk it from Hector’s grasp—but Hector’s cheating came with a price as his chariot strayed too close to the wall, hitting with such force, it broke into pieces and sent him flying. Persephone did not even see where the mortal landed, she was too focused on Apollo who had appeared on the field just as Ajax finished his final lap, winning the race.
Ajax drew his chariot to a stop, his wide smile on display for the crowd. As he dismounted, Apollo approached and hesitantly reached out, touching the mortal’s bloodied face where the whip had split his skin. Then, all of a sudden, the two kissed. Ajax cradled Apollo’s face between his hands, his mouth devouring, his body overpowering. Their display of affection was met with cheers—even from Hermes.
“Yes! Get it, brother!”
Persephone tried not to laugh.
When the crowd began to boo, Apollo spun to find Hector rising from the dust, cradling his arm against his chest. He spat blood, a gush of crimson coming from his nose and mouth, hatred gleamed in his eyes.
It was then Persephone noticed something strange—a group of spectators breaking from their place among the crowd and making their way down the stadium steps.
“Hermes…who are those people?”
Just as she posed the question, Ajax seemed to take note, and in the next second, he was drawing Hermes behind him as shots rang out and screams filled the air.
“Get down!” Sybil shouted, but Persephone could only watch the horror as Ajax push Apollo to the ground, taking bullet after bullet.
“No!” Persephone’s scream was raw and painful, scraping against her throat as she stood and slammed on the window.
“Persephone,” Hermes reached for her. “We have to go!”
Apollo screamed beneath Ajax’s convulsing body. Finally, he managed to roll and the bullets that raced toward them stopped mid-air, dropping to the ground.
“There are others here who will fight,” Hermes argued. “But not you.”
Hermes had his hand wrapped around her upper arm as he dragged her away from the window. Then, there was a terrible sound—a cracking that sounded like Zeus’s magic escaping from the clouds—except it wasn’t. Part of the stadium had exploded.
“Get the mortals out!” someone commanded, and there was a sudden rush of magic. Persephone watch as Harmonia vanished with Sybil and Leuce. Zofie stood, hand outstretched toward Persephone.
“Go!” Hermes pushed her toward the Amazon.
Then there was another defending explosion and Persephone found herself floating through the air, landing hard at the center of the track amid flying debris and dust. As she hit, there was a sharp pain in her ribs, and it felt as though her breath had been sucked out of her body. She rolled onto her back, gasping for air just as a shadow loomed overhead.
A mortal man holding a rock aloft.
Persephone screamed, her magic stirring, and from the ground, great thorns rose, piercing the man. He dropped the stone, run through with the vine, blood dripping from his mouth.
She rolled and crawled away, getting to her feet amid the chaos of desperate screams and death. People lay motionless while others climbed over the bodies to escape the ruined arena. There were hundreds of these masked attackers and even as the gods descended, they continued to take aim. She did not understand this—but knew it for what it was—hate.
Magic ignited the air in a stream of bright light—lightning bolts struck, and energy pulsed. Artemis unleashed a spray of deadly arrows while Athena ran others through with a spear and Ares with a sword. Zofie fought, too, having landed across the arena. A streak of blood ran from her head down her face, but her blade was drawn, and she was nimble, quick, and dangerous.
It was bloodshed. It was a battle.
“Persephone!” Her name tore from Apollo’s mouth. She whirled, but it was too late. A bullet struck her shoulder.
“No!” Apollo’s eyes glowed as he ran toward her.
She staggered a couple steps, shocked, the left side of her body numb. She managed to look down, and as she saw the blood seeping into the white fabric of her dress, she began to fall but before she could land in the dirt, strong arms surrounded her. The catch jarred her, and she gave a guttural cry.
“I’ve got you.” Hades said. She stared into his dark, stormy eyes for only a second before he teleported.
CHAPTER XXV - MONSTERS
When they appeared in the Underworld, within the walls of Hades’ bedchamber, a hot pain settled deep in her bones, radiating from her shoulder. Persephone moaned, forcing herself to breathe through the pain as Hades settled her upon the bed. He started to ease her arm out of her blazer and then tore her dress for access to the wound, and as his fingers brushed it, she inhaled sharply between her teeth.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she said between her teeth.
“I need to see if the bullet left your body,” Hades said.
“Let me heal it.”
“Persephone—”
“I have to try,” she snapped. “Hades—”
He curled his hands into fists and stepped back, rubbing his forehead with bloodied fingers.
“Do it, Persephone,” he growled.
She closed her eyes against his frustration, knowing that his panic was winning. He’d never wanted to see her bleed again, and here they were. She drew in deep breath after deep breath until a calmness overtook her and she was able to focus on the fiery pain emanating from her wounded shoulder. This time, she just wanted the heat to end, so she imagined that the magic she used to soothe it was cool and crisp—a kiss of frost in early spring.
“Now,” she heard Hades’ low growl.
But Persephone knew her magic was working—the wound throbbed as it healed.
Finally, Hades let out a low breath and Persephone opened her eyes, staring down at her exposed shoulder to see that the skin was slightly pink and puckered, but the wound was healed.
“I did it,” she said and smiled as she looked at Hades.
“You did,” he said, his eyes moving from her wound to her gaze, and she got the sense that he didn’t quite believe her.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“Nothing you wish to know,” he said.
She believed it.
Finally, he approached.
“Let’s clean you up.”
Once again, Hades gathered her to his chest and took her into the bathroom. When her feet touched the floor, she reached to brush loose tendrils of hair from Hades’ face, her blood was still smeared on his skin.
“Are you well?”
Instead of answering, he turned on the shower, letting the water grow hot.
He took her hand and kissed her palm before reaching behind her and unzipping her ruined dress, guiding it down over her breasts and hips until it puddled on the floor. Her bra followed—his touch lingering on her breasts, then her waist, then her thighs as he slid her panties down her legs, pausing as he knelt on the floor to gaze up at her.