Page 9 of Blood of Olympus

“You call that a queen?” Ares scoffed.

My teeth clicked together audibly.

“She is no queen of mine,” he seethed, flicking his blazing gaze to mine. His irises were alight, whirling with unrestrained hatred. “You’ve been holed up in your palace, down in the slums all week, while we’ve been trying to fix what you broke,” he spat.

Unfolding languidly, I stalked across the space until I stood directly in front of him. Leaning in, I placed one hand on either arm of his seat, until both crowns resting upon my brow were directly in his line of sight. Impossible to ignore.

“Do you dare refute the will of the crown?” I asked, my voice low — murderously soft.

Ares swallowed, his eyes furiously churning. “I do not refute that the crown chose you fairly,” he replied with a gruff.

Surprisingly satisfied, I straightened.

“But that was a week ago,” he continued. “Before you turned into a whining, moping bitch, leaving everyone else to clean up your messes. Just like your father.”

With that addendum, Ares had lit the match, igniting five separate explosive reactions.

The first: static energy thrummed in the air as a violet-coloured lightning bolt skewered him through his left shoulder.

The second: Aros flew across the room with a wordless roar, fist extended.

The third: my now barn-sized dragon bellowed. Flames spewed from her maw, setting half the room alight and destroying all progress made to the Parthenon’s repairs with a single breath.

The fourth: Aletheia darted behind Caelus’ long legs, sheer terror etched across her doll-like face.

And the fifth: I slugged Ares in the side of his smug face with a solid right hook, hard enough to dislodge several teeth, beating Aros — quite literally — to the punch.

If only because I was closer.

Ares leaped to his feet with a bellow, his whole body awash with bright orange fire — a living, breathing inferno. He spat three gold-coated molars at my feet before snarling, “You’ll pay for that, you stupid bitch!”

“Called it!” my imagined version of Charon announced gleefully. It sounded so real, so visceral, that I hesitated, questioning the state of my psyche once again.

But before Ares could do so much as breathe in my direction, he was forcibly doused by a pair of bronze handcuffs snapping into place on each of his wrists with a definitive click.

Hephaestus — the procurer of said cuffs — dragged the furious god of war to his feet with one swift tug. Ares tried to fight off the gargantuan god of craftsmanship, but it was akin to a candle battling against a waterfall. The cuffs sapped him of all strength and power, so much so that I would have worried about the extent of their influence had they been on anyone other than that bitter bastard.

“Take him to the prison beneath Mount Olympus until he cools off,” I said through gritted teeth.

Hephaestus nodded and began stalking towards the doors, dragging a thrashing and cursing Ares behind him.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as something — or someone — tapped my shoulder.

Look, it seemed to say. Listen, it urged.

I’d have been a fool to ignore it, so I turned slowly, scanning the space for whatever it wanted me to see. My gaze snagged on Apollo, though I couldn’t articulate exactly why. He sat directly across from me, clad in a pristine white chiton clasped neatly at the shoulders with two matching gilded brooches of intersecting swords. His bare, muscular legs were crossed, his sandaled feet completely still, while the fingers of his left hand tapped the arm of his throne.

My eyes narrowed — his were unfocused as he stared straight ahead, looking but not really seeing.

What’s wrong with him? Velira noted my change in demeanor and her concern rattled through my mind.

I’m not sure. It’s like he’s here physically but his mind is someplace else.

I’d have questioned whether he even breathed except that I caught the slight, rhythmic tremor in his parted lips, as though he were reciting silent words.

Caelus, sensing my confusion, jerked his head first to me, then, following the line of my sight, to our friend. He approached slowly, waving a scarred hand across Apollo’s field of vision, but not even movement could capture his attention.

“Apollo?” he asked, placing a scarred hand on the god’s arm.