They were all on their fourth glass of wine. Despite this, Persephone expected Sybil to protest. Instead, she said, “Get the laptop, Seph!”
Persephone grinned and ran into her room to grab her computer. When she came back, she sat cross-legged on the sofa.
“Write this down,” Sybil directed. “Apollo, known for his charm and beauty, has a secret—he cannot stand rejection.”
“Oh, that’s good!” Leuce encouraged.
“Oh, oh! Hold on,” Persephone said, typing quickly, the words coming faster than her fingers would move. When she was finished, she read the piece aloud:
“The evidence is overwhelming. I would have his many ex-lovers vouch for me, but they either begged to be saved from his wily pursuits and were turned into trees or died horrible deaths as a result of his punishment.”
“Yes!” Leuce cried.
Persephone continued, adding the stories of Daphne, the nymph who was turned into a tree, and Princess Cassandra, whose accurate predictions were dismissed.
“Cassandra cried that Greeks were hidden in the Trojan Horse but was ignored. Which begs the question how noble can Apollo truly be? When he fought on the side of Troy, yet compromise their victory, all because he was given the cold shoulder?”
“Gods, he’s so terrible,” Sybil said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”
“He’s abusive,” Persephone said. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“You should say that in the article!” Leuce said. “Apollo is an abuser—he has a need to control and dominate. It’s not about communication or listening, it’s about winning.”
They continued like that for hours, until Sybil and Leuce could no longer keep their eyes open. With the two asleep on the couch, Persephone was pinned against the armrest. The pallid glow from her computer hurt her eyes, but she continued to revise what they’d written together. The result was a critical and slightly hostile article about the God of Music. Persephone excluded Sybil’s story, even though she’d contributed a few lines illustrating her own experiences with the god. She didn’t want Apollo to retaliate against the oracle.
The more Persephone read and reread the piece, the angrier she got and before she could think it through, she composed an email to Demetri and sent the article. She felt triumphant for all of two seconds—before she scrambled from the couch, ran into the bathroom, and threw up in the toilet.
You are in so much trouble, she thought as she sagged against the bathroom wall. Her stomach felt like it was boiling, a combination of too much wine and guilt.
Apollo did this to himself. She thought, reminding herself why she’d sent the article. He deserves this. This is about justice, about giving a voice to his victims.
What about Hades?
Her stomach lurched and Persephone got to her knees just as bile rose to the back of her throat. She vomited again. Her nose and throat burned and all she could taste was bitter, acidic wine. She knelt for a while, breathing through her mouth until she felt steady enough to rise to her feet.
When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. She looked more like a soul that had just arrived in the Underworld, pale and shivering.
“Hades kept secrets,” she said aloud, as if that explained why she’d gone back on her word.
You kept secrets, she reminded herself as she rinsed her mouth and brushed her teeth. You didn’t tell him about Demetri’s ultimatum.
“That’s different,” she met her gaze in the mirror.
How?
It was different because it was her battle. She hadn’t wanted Hades’ help fighting it.
“It’s different because that secret won’t hurt him,” she said.
But the secret he’d kept about Leuce? It hurt.
She didn’t like the words that followed. They grew like menacing clouds, a storm of tormenting words in her mind: This will hurt Hades.
She turned out the lights.
CHAPTER VIII - ABDUCTION
When Persephone arrived at work the next day, the crowd outside the Acropolis had grown to include members of Apollo’s cult—worshippers and die-hard fans. They were obvious because they wore wreaths of laurel in their hair and gold dust like warpaint. Even from inside Hades’ Lexus, Persephone heard angry shouts.
“Liar!”
“Apologize to Apollo!”
“You’re just jealous!”
“Bitch!”
Clearly her article had been published.
Antoni looked in the rearview mirror at her.
“Would you like me to walk you to the door, my lady?”
Persephone stared out the window. Security had already approached the car and were prepared to escort her.
Gods. What had she done?
“No, Antoni. That’s alright.”
He nodded once. “I’ll return for you this afternoon.”
When she left the car, she was thrust into a hostile and unfamiliar world. Everything was so loud, and she felt everyone’s emotions—anger and hate, anxiety and fear—they weighed upon her chest, smothering her.
“Come, my lady,” one of the security guards said. He stuck his arm out as if to corral her but didn’t touch her. She looked at him, blinking.
“Did you call me ‘my lady’?” she asked.
The guard blushed.
“It’s not safe out here, hurry!”
She knew it wasn’t safe. She could feel the violence of the crowd growing and by the time she reached the entrance, part of the crowd had broken out into a fight. She was ushered inside, and turned to watch as the officers took charge, dividing the throng and diffusing the situation.
I don’t understand. All of this over a few words I wrote.
No one had gotten this angry when she had written about Hades, but she knew why—the God of the Underworld was hardly beloved, just intriguing. Apollo was the literal God of Light. He was a God of Music and Poetry. He represented all the things in life mortals wanted.
Including the darkness they never wanted to acknowledge.
When she turned to head up the elevator, she found she was being watched by everyone on the first floor—the front desk receptionist, security, random employees.
They stared at her, wide-eyed and kept their distance. Maybe they were afraid Apollo would appear and strike her down. Whatever the case, she was glad to have an elevator to herself. The reprieve was short-lived, however, because the stares continued as she made her way to her desk.
Helen was her usual, chipper self, greeting Persephone and following her to her desk. The only indication she gave that she was aware of the backlash was when she informed Persephone that she hadn’t forwarded any calls to her voicemail.
“I could take over your email, if you’d like. Just for the day.”
“No, that’s okay, Helen.”
“Do you need anything? Coffee or a snack?”
Persephone thought for a moment. “Tylenol,” she answered. “And some water.”
“I’ll be right back!”
Helen returned a short time later. Persephone took the medicine tried to concentrate on her work which consisted of reading hate mail and staring at a black document that was supposed to contain her exclusive.
If she was being honest, she was on edge, waiting for Hades to slam his way through the doors of her workplace, gather her up and carry her off to the Underworld to be punished for her decision to betray him.