Page 96 of Ungodly Rich

Or a ring.

Which Julia had been clutching in her hand when she miraculously, impossibly, survived the fire.

What if Zeus had forged a ring from the Aegis and given it to Julia’s mother, hoping it would protect her? And then Claire had passed it to her daughter instead?

“Look! She’s knocking them down!” Julia gestured across the beach toward Lady Sophie, who was gleefully kicking down the first of her sandcastles. A few photographers surrounded her, snapping pictures.

Lady Sophie laughed. “Join in, everyone!” she called out. “Destruction is the other side of the coin from creation!”

Hermes watched as Julia ran over to the nearest sandcastle and began kicking at it with the wild abandon of a toddler. “Come on!” she exclaimed, looking over her shoulder at Hermes with a gleeful smile. “Get in on the fun!”

No, Hermes thought, there was no subterfuge in Julia. She was as earnest and guileless as she seemed, all the way down to her core. He wasn’t fool enough to think she’d appeared among them by accident, but he doubted that she was here to get revenge. If anything, some other god had brought her here to wreak havoc.

She was an unwitting pawn, one who might easily be destroyed as collateral damage.

Hermes watched Julia kick at the sandcastle. So quickly, all its painstaking details crumbled into nothing. He couldn’t stop thinking of Julia’s mortal home, turning to ash. Destroyed just this easily.

He longed, suddenly, to tell Julia that she was in danger.But you aren’t alone,he wanted to say.You have me.His magic wasn’t much compared to that of the other Olympians, just speed and glib words and a talent for thievery. Still, he would use it to protect her, as best he could.

This woman—hisfriend—was walking among the gods with a target on her back, and she had no idea.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Hera

Hera had to admit, the island was beautiful. It really was a shame that so few of the wedding guests would get to see it.

She glanced over at Aphrodite, who was, to Hera’s discomfort, in the driver’s seat, guiding their rental car down the winding island roads. Hera would have been content with a mortal chauffeur, but Aphrodite had insisted that she found driving “fun,” something Hera couldn’t comprehend.

Her gaze slid back out the window. Gorgeous trees stood to either side of the road, Spanish moss draped from their branches as if they were old ladies waving handkerchiefs. In the distance, sunlight gleamed on the white-sand beaches that led to the Atlantic. The air was heavy with the scents of salt and mud and early morning sunshine.

Aphrodite turned the opposite direction, toward the ferry that shuttled guests back and forth between the island and the mainland of Georgia. There was no bridge, something Julia had worried about, but Hera had assured her that it didn’t matter. Most of the guests would arrive by private jet anyway.

“We’re here,” Aphrodite murmured, pulling into a gravel lot before a sign that readThe Rusty Hook.

Hera huffed out a disbelieving breath. “Why would Poseidon come here?” she demanded, though she knew the answer.

His worshippers were here, and gods always found comfort among the mortals who honored them—who poured their time and passion, their brief mortal lives, into the things those gods stood for.

Inside, the bar had sticky floors and dim lighting. The walls were hung with old nautical relics that looked like junk, buoys and nets and one of those tacky singing fish that wagged its tail.

A figure with sandy blond hair and bright blue eyes stood at the bar with a cluster of coarse-looking sailors, wearing a breezy guayabera shirt, leather sandals, and cargo shorts. Hera was oddly startled by the sight of Poseidon’s bare legs, though she couldn’t have said why. They were perfectly normal legs, if a little hairy.

As the two goddesses walked in, every man present turned to stare. Hera tried not to be irritated by the way their eyes skimmed over her to linger on Aphrodite.

“Can you get me a dark and stormy?” Aphrodite asked. The question was directed at Hera, but the men at the bar immediately clamored for the bartender’s attention, jostling to be the one who brought Aphrodite her drink. Smiling, Aphrodite made a show of wandering over to the jukebox in the corner to examine the song selection. The other men immediately stumbled along in her wake like fish pulled on a lure.

Hera waited until they’d started playing “Margaritaville” before sidling to the lone figure who remained at the bar, clutching his beer. The god of the sea sighed at her approach.

“What is it, Hera?”

It’s a little early in the day to be at a bar,Hera wanted to say, but she stuck to the script, using the old, formal language. “I would ask something of you.”

Poseidon made a show of stretching his fingers before him, cracking his knuckles. “Really? Because I’m still pretty tired from thelastfavor I did you. Do you know how hard it is to raise an island from the sea?”

“I can only imagine,” Hera said placatingly. “And you’ve outdone yourself, Poseidon. It’s beautiful.”

The Resort at Ismene, this island on the stretch of coast between St. Simons and Savannah, hadn’texistedthree months ago. Poseidon had pulled it from the depths, shaping it as he went, Jack Nicklaus–designed golf course and all. The whole thing had been Ares’s idea, actually. He had wanted to throw Julia a wedding close to home. When Hera replied that nowhere in the South could fit their party, Ares didn’t back down. He just stated that they would need somewhere new.