Page 28 of Blood of Olympus

Demeter — naturally — eyed them warily, if not a little amused.

And though Nike was the epitome of nonchalance — one tanned arm draped around Athena’s shoulder, the other mindlessly tossing a laurel wreath in the air — the repetitiveness of the act betrayed her nerves.

Athena’s posture, in stark contrast, was rigid and guarded. Her body language almost dared anyone to question Nike’s presence at her side — but when her eyes flicked up to her lover every now and then, they were filled with a soul-deep longing that I was no longer a stranger to.

They’ve not made any efforts to hide their relationship, Vel began. But Athena will act first, ask questions later should anyone deign to comment on it. Her long snout swung around, indicating Hermes, who sat with golden ichor pooling at his feet from a fresh wound in his thigh.

Let me guess: Hermes commented on it?

He did. Her lips peeled back to reveal two rows of knife-sharp fangs — a serpentine kind of smile — as a wisp of smoke passed between them.

Hermes sank deeper into his chair, as far back as the cold metal would allow.

A low, chortling sound escaped Velira’s throat in response.

In the centre of the room, Haras stood at least a foot taller than Caelus, with his bulky arms crossed. His skin — somewhere between grey and brown — stretched taut as his biceps flexed. His long onyx hair was pulled back off his face, leaving his one ocean-coloured eye proudly on display in the middle of his forehead, shrewdly assessing me. His gaze was unnerving — unblinking — and unfortunately, the one next to him did little to reassure me.

Erato only reached Haras’ chest in height, but she was equally as bold. Her curves were captivating, delicately clad in a gown of lilac gauze, which left precisely nothing to the imagination. Golden skin dotted with freckles peeked through each sliver of fabric, the ties of which propped her breasts up masterfully. She had presented herself in such a way that one might easily miss the silver flash of the dagger strapped to her thigh if they could not bring themselves to look elsewhere. One hazelnut eye winked at me from beneath her auburn locks, and the sultry tilt to her lips had me momentarily questioning my preferences.

That wink was familiar.

Her grin widened as surely as my eyes did and she tipped her head in assent — yes, we had met before. A lifetime ago, in an arena filled with sparring champions and flirtatious trainers.

I quickly moved on to Aspan, struck by an unexpected pang of sorrow.

The satyr bore an easy grin, dipping his head cordially as my gaze acknowledged him. His lower half was that of a goat — he wore only chocolate-coloured fur from his hips down to his hooves, which were painted a glaring shade of green — while his upper half, that of a man, was unclothed — adorned in thick tufts of hair that crawled over his shoulders and down his back. One nipple was pierced with a small silver circle, piquing my curiosity. He grinned again knowingly, then sketched a low bow.

“Since we’re both ogling each other, and you’ve now become privy to my nipple ring, I suppose it’s only logical that we should be on a first name basis.” The satyr winked. “You can call me Pan,” he offered. “It’s preferable to ass.”

I choked on a quiet laugh. Caelus was not so fortunate, harrumphing loudly which turned into subsequent coughs.

“It’s fortuitous then, that you’re not half donkey, isn’t it?” I quipped, biting down on the inside of my lip to prevent any further snickers from escaping.

The chamber erupted in amusement. From Aphrodite’s cackle, to Demeter’s quiet chuckle, to Aros’ roaring howl. Aspan, himself, was thoroughly and surprisingly amused.

“That’s a new one. I think I like you.” He grinned, revealing a row of pointed teeth.

“Get in line,” Aros called from across the room, eliciting a few more godly giggles.

Dionysus stood beside Pan, half a head taller and noticeably slimmer. His was a wiry kind of build — the kind that fared better running over long distances than in close combat. His blonde, shoulder-length locks were tied back in a style similar to what Aros favoured, and he was clutching, of all things, a small bunch of grapes. Every now and then he would whisper to them, then eat one and frown, only to repeat the process some minutes later.

“What are you doing?” I couldn’t help but ask after trying and failing to puzzle it out.

It took Dionysus a few seconds to register that I was addressing him. In response, he just held out the bundle with a dumbstruck expression plastered across his face.

“Taste one and tell me what you think.”

I frowned, wary of the strange god and his fruit.

Do not eat that! Velira snapped as I reached for it. Do not trust new faces — be wary of old ones too. You’re queen of everything now, she scolded. Many would love to usurp the usurper.

I usurped nothing.

That’s not what they whisper and you know it.

She eyed me with one melon-sized golden eye, sauntering past to sniff at the proffered fruit. Dionysus quivered as she neared, his hand shaking so violently he almost dropped them.

Velira opened her maw slowly, and his eyelids slammed shut as he muttered to himself like a prayer. Her long tongue snaked out and coiled around a solitary grape with finesse, plucking it from his clammy hand and rolling it back into her mouth.